


Promise of Home

by dragonQuill907



Series: Promises [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Past, Eventual Johnlock, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Johnlock - Freeform, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, POV Julia, POV Original Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parenthood, Parentlock, Past Child Abuse, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Sherlock spends all of his time tracking down Moriarty's associates and exterminating them. During his last hit, he stumbles upon the last thing he'd expected - a teenage girl.  Julia is more insecure than she lets on, and in more danger than either of them realize.  Meanwhile, Sherlock has to work to win back John's friendship. Enter Mary Morstan, who only makes the task more difficult.<br/>Can Sherlock be there for Julia whilst also competing for John's attention?<br/>Can Julia stay sane long enough for her past to catch up with her?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Staying Up

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind the tags! I'd hate for anyone to be triggered while reading.  
> This is (sadly) not britpicked. Sorry if they sound too American.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finishes the job and owes a girl some new shoes.  
> Title is "Staying Up" by The Neighbourhood.

The man lay bleeding out at his feet, crimson pooling underneath his body. Sherlock wiped the blade he used to slit the man’s throat on a handkerchief that had once been Mycroft’s. He sighed. He had to get out of the house soon; Moran was supposed to be the last one, but if any of his assassin associates showed up, Sherlock would be no match for them with just a knife.

Sherlock went from room to room, checking that they were all empty. Most were, except for one that must have functioned as a sort of bedroom. It had a mattress with blankets balled up on one side and a duffel bag zipped neatly in the corner, ready to grab at a moment’s notice.

_Finish the job, Sherlock,_ he thought. _Finish the job, and you can go back to Baker Street. Back to John._

Sherlock rooted through the bag quickly, looking for money or IDs. He came up with fifteen euros, a chocolate bar with nuts, and a hairbrush that was covered in hair too blonde to be Moran's. Not to mention the t-shirts that wouldn't cover even half the man's body.

This was not Moran's bag. Someone else lived in the house. The question was: were they home?

Sherlock sighed and moved out of the room, scanning the walls and floor for signs of another human being. There were none in all the house except for that room. He pulled out his phone, but when he got to the room Moran's body was in, he slipped it back in his pocket and drew out the knife instead.

A woman was standing over the body, blood threatening to soak into her converse shoes.

“You know, I was going to ask if you'd killed him,” she said. “Now I'm just wondering why you had to do go about it so messily. Couldn't you just snap his neck or something? Look at that.”

The figure turned. It wasn't a woman at all; it was a girl, barely seventeen, with dark brown eyes and a cool expression.

“Easy with that,” she scoffed. “I'm unarmed.”

“An unwise decision,” Sherlock replied, his voice rasping from lack of use. “I'm assuming you're homeless, given by the state of your hair and clothes and the fact that you're here at all. This is obviously a dangerous part of town; there's a man lying dead at your feet, and I've just pulled a knife. Anyone could come in and kill you. So, why aren't you armed?”

“Wasn't allowed,” the girl said simply, pushing the sleeves of her navy blue sweatshirt to her elbows. “You owe me new Converse. Cute ones, too, not just black or white or something dull.”

“Excuse me?”

“You need to buy me new shoes. It's your fault he's bleeding out so much.”

“It's your fault for standing in it.”

“It's your fault for making me take his pulse,” the girl argued. Her fingers had blood on them. She didn’t seem fazed.

“I didn't make you do anything.”     

“Well, you didn't take his pulse.”

“I didn't have to,” Sherlock pointed out. “I slit his throat, if you haven't noticed.”

“I _know_ you slit his throat; I watched you do it.”

“No, I didn't see you here.”

She smiled sweetly. “I'm good at hiding.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement before phoning Mycroft. He looked at the girl, taking in her appearance. She was tall for her age, and extremely thin. Her facial features were gaunt, and there was a smattering of acne on her chin and left cheek. Her hair was light blonde and short, like it’d been hacked off with a pair of safety scissors. She wore tattered jeans and a hoodie, with dingy white shoes that were falling apart at the seams. Maybe she did need newer shoes.

“Sherlock,” his brother greeted once he answered, “is it done?”

“Yes. You'll have to come clean it up. I'm leaving.”

“Not yet-”

“I'm done. That was it. Moran's dead. They're all dead. I'm leaving, you're cleaning this mess, and-”

“I'm coming with you,” the girl put in.

“No,” Sherlock refused.

“Yes,” she protested. “You can't just leave me here. I'll die.”

“Well, how did you survive on your own?”

“I didn't. Moran took care of me.”

“Moran,” Sherlock scoffed

“My mother told him to.”

“Sherlock? Who else is there?” Mycroft asked. “If you've let yourself be known-”

“It's just a girl. Seventeen, at the most. She can take care of herself.”

“I'm fifteen.”

“See? You can take care of yourself.”

“You owe me new shoes,” she reminded.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, “she might have information.”

“I don't,” she disputed, shaking her head.

“She might. Goodbye, Mycroft. We'll see you soon, and you can figure out what to do with her.”

“Sher-”

Sherlock clicked the end call button and slipped his phone in his pocket.

“What's your name?” he asked the girl.

“Julia, but I’m going to change it now.”

“Last name?”

“Lloyd. Er, I’d rather forget it now, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t as if it really mattered anyway.

“So they’re all dead, then?” not-Julia asked. “Everyone who worked for Moriarty. And you killed them yourself?

“Yes. And you know about Moriarty because of Moran, yes?”

“Yes. Can I have my stuff back, now? The chocolate bar and euros.”

Sherlock tossed her the candy bar, but she kept her hand outstretched.

“The fifteen euros, Mr. Holmes. Give it to me.”

Sherlock sighed and handed over the money. He noticed fading scars on her arms, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the energy. He’d been up for four days prior to this one, and he could feel his inevitable crash approaching rapidly.

Not-Julia smiled.

“Are we ever going to leave?”

“Get your bag. There should be a car pulling up soon.”

“Okay.” The girl bolted up the stairs and into her room. She was by Sherlock in a minute, with her bag over her shoulder. “It’s always ready.”

Sherlock led the girl outside, where a sleek black car was already waiting. They climbed in quickly. The girl stared out the window, her legs curled underneath her.

“How did you know my name?” Sherlock asked once they were away from the house.

“Well, I could hear the man on the phone say it, and it’s not a very common name, is it? Moran always talked about a man called Sherlock Holmes who was so clever he was almost a match for Moriarty. After Moriarty died, all he talked about was killing you,” she said. “I’m glad you killed him first.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s good that he didn’t get the chance. And what are you going to call yourself, then? Will I have to introduce you to my brother as ‘the girl’?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I was just thinking about that. When are we meeting him?”

“Two days.”

“Then, no,” Not-Julia said. “I’ll have something by then. An idea, at least.”

“Mm.”

They were silent for the rest of the ride. The car dropped them off at a cheap hotel, Sherlock switched his single room to a double one, and they dropped their bags at the feet of their respective beds.

Sherlock handed Not-Julia his card.

“Anything you want. Within reason, that is.”

“Anything?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Within reason. I estimate I’ll be asleep for at least twenty hours. Should you get hungry or require new clothes, use the card to pay for it. You can't buy anything worthwhile with fifteen euros.”

“Thanks, Mr. Holmes,” the girl said, ducking into the bathroom with a change of clothes. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Call me Sherlock,” he said, and he found himself smirking.

**~*~**

Julia put on her cleanest clothes – jeans that had no holes in them and a tee that was splattered with bleach stains – and practically skipped down the stairs, clutching Sherlock’s credit card like a lifeline. It was only seven o’clock, and the café on the ground floor of the hotel was open until nine, so she walked inside.

It was a small room, with about five tables, a small countertop, and a glass case jam-packed with everything from lunch meat sandwiches to chocolate fudge brownies. Julia bought two ham sandwiches, a mug of hot chocolate, and a pumpkin donut for later. She sat in an armchair by the window, gazing at the dark streets of the city.

She wouldn’t ever need to come back here.

Julia sipped her hot chocolate, savoring the way it burned her throat. She polished off both sandwiches within ten minutes and wrapped the donut in a napkin. It was more than she’d had to eat in a few days; she felt deliciously full.

_Not Julia,_ she thought. _Not anymore._

Heather? No. Sadie? Not her. Not Sandra, either. Really, nothing that started with an ‘S.’

Julia-for-now was sure she’d figure it out. She had another day and a half, after all, until she met Sherlock’s brother ‘Mycroft,’ and they decided to put her in a home where she would be assigned a number and her name wouldn’t even matter.

She smirked. Anywhere would be better than living with Moran. Julia would live with a herd of yellow man-eating polar bears on planet Neptune before she’d want to go back to dealing with Moran and his stupid punishments.

Julia chugged the rest of her hot chocolate and went back upstairs, although it wasn’t even that late yet.

She dug through her bag for anything resembling sleepwear and came up with a pair of fading green sweatpants and a t-shirt that used to be white but was now a faint gray. She hopped in the shower and reveled in the hot water pelting her back. Julia turned the heat all the way up and sighed. She grabbed the generic shampoo and worked it into what hair she had. After pouring nearly half a bottle of mint-scented body wash onto a cloth, she scrubbed herself clean, until her skin was pink and her arms were sore. She felt cleaner than she had in weeks.

Julia toweled herself off quickly and changed into her makeshift pajamas. Julia pulled on another pair of socks and clambered into her bed, the one closest to the door. She glanced over at the bed on the opposite side of the room. Sherlock hadn’t changed out of his day clothes, and he was curled up in a little ball under the covers. Julia wished she could sleep like that, totally out of it. She stayed awake, staring blankly into the room.

If she closed her eyes, she could see the nightmares play out on her eyelids.

Opal, Kelly, Amanda, Lana. No, no, no, no. Kerrie, Winnie, Rebecca, Gina. Beatrice, Laura, Tiana, Diane. Wait. Laura. Laura?

_Could be a contender,_ Julia thought. _Laura_.

It wasn’t bad, Julia had to admit. She’d try it out tomorrow if Sherlock ever woke up. It didn’t seem like the man ever would, considering how loudly he was snoring. Julia-Laura didn’t care, though. It was just another thing to remind her that she wasn’t living under Moran’s rule anymore. Granted, she was living under Sherlock’s now, but that was already much better than where she had been before. Julia-Laura didn’t even remember the last time she’d had hot chocolate before that night. Probably before she was ten, she guessed.

Her eyes were open so long they were burning, so she tried to drift off to sleep.

It was late morning when Julia-Laura – well, just Laura today – woke up. She blamed it on that she hadn’t slept in a real bed since Moran had dragged her to Greece the year before. Laura was about to bite into the pumpkin donut she hadn’t eaten yesterday, only to realize it was rock-hard. A glance to the other bed told her Sherlock was still sleeping, so the girl grabbed his card and made her way down to the café again.

Laura decided that she really didn’t like _Laura_ , and she was Julia again before she even walked up to the counter. She wondered if it would be easier to just keep her birth name. It wasn’t as if anyone else knew her. She could still be a new person without a new name.

Julia purchased two cinnamon buns, another hot chocolate, and a cup of tea. The cashier, a teenage boy this time, smiled shyly and mumbled something in German. Julia smiled back and shook her head.

“I only know English, sorry.”

“Oh, you are from Britain, then?” the boy said in a heavy accent.

“Yes,” Julia answered. “You speak the language?”

“Yes, it helps with customers,” the boy answered. “My name is Paulos. Will you tell me yours, or should I call you ‘pretty girl?’” Julia would’ve been impressed if Paulos hadn’t blushed a violent red.

“I’m not pretty,” Julia replied. “I’m just Julia.”

“Julia, do not be funny. You are very pretty.”

Julia shrugged. “Thanks, Paulos. I guess. Listen, I’ve got to go wake up my, uh, uncle. I’ll probably come back at lunchtime, though. You’ll be here?”

“Yes, Julia. I will see you then.”

“’Bye, Paulos.”

“Goodbye, pretty girl.”

Julia rolled her eyes and traveled carefully up the stairs with her spoils. A short woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes bumped her shoulder, and Julia almost dropped Sherlock’s tea. Julia froze, staring at eyes that could only have been _hers_ and a thick nose that definitely was not.

“Sorry,” the woman slurred, and the scent of alcohol radiated from her breath in waves. “M’bad.”

_She_ wasn’t there. She was gone. Julia closed her eyes, keeping still as the woman stumbled down the stairs. She was gone. Everything was fine. Julia was with Sherlock now, for however long that would last, and _she_ wouldn’t ever come back.

Julia walked slowly to the room, trying to ignore that her hands were shaking. When she opened the door, both beds were empty and the shower was running. She put her groceries on the small table in the corner of the room. She attacked her cinnamon roll and waited for Sherlock to be out of the bathroom. He stepped out two minutes later, wearing another version of what he was in yesterday, dark jeans and a black t-shirt.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Not here,” he replied easily, sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Escaped, if you want to put it that way.”

“Well, I don’t want to put it that way. You still owe me new shoes,” she reminded, smirking. “I brought you tea from the café downstairs.”

Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. He took off the cap and sniffed it.

“What?” Julia questioned. “Do you think I poisoned it? I didn’t even make it; you’d have to ask Paulos.”

“You’re making friends already; how nice,” Sherlock mumbled. “What would you have to gain by poisoning me, anyway?”

“Nothing. You owe me new Converse.”

“You keep telling me this as if I am going to forget.”

“You might. I’m hoping it’ll irritate you enough that you buy them sooner than later. I’m getting tired of walking around in these.”

“I’ll get you your new shoes. Just wait until we get back to London. After we talk to _Mycroft_.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea and grimaced.

“You say his name like it pains you.”

“It does.”

“I don’t have any siblings.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that bit, thank you.”

“I bought you a cinnamon roll,” Julia replied, choosing to ignore his previous jab. “You should probably eat it; you’re nearly as skinny as I am.”

The man glared at her but bit into the pastry anyway, his gaze flicking over her thoughtfully.

“Your brother thinks I have information, right?” Julia asked. Sherlock nodded. “I don’t, not really. Nothing you’d find useful, anyway. Moran wore knee socks in the winter. He couldn’t stand the cold weather. He was from Brazil, you see.”

Sherlock shook his head, wiping the sticky sugar from his fingers with a napkin. “Mycroft will have more difficult questions for you. Frankly, I, on the other hand, don’t care. As long as they’re all dead, I don’t care.”

“Did you kill them all?” she asked. She was just curious. Moriarty’s network had been vast, and for one person to kill each and every associate, well, it was mind-numbing. “How long did it take? How did you track them all down? It seems impossible.”

“Yes, I did, but I had _help_.” Sherlock spat the word like it was dirty. “I made the mess, and my brother picked up after me. He knew where half of them were already. It wasn’t hard to track them from each other.”

“So, you haven’t been to London since…”

“Two years ago,” Sherlock whispered. “Two years, four months, and nine days.”

“What about your family? Your friends?”

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “Stop asking about it.”

“Sorry,” she apologized.

Sherlock sighed. “Do you know your name yet?”

“Just call me Julia,” she answered. “Um, do you know where I’ll be going, yet? I know you probably don’t want me to stay with you, so…”

“Nonsense; you might have more information you’re not telling me.”

“I’d have told you by now, Sherlock.”

“I can’t know that.”

“I suppose believing me is too much to ask.”

Sherlock smirked and nodded.

Julia sighed and rummaged around in her duffel bag, seeking the familiar contraption she had kept secret from Moran ever since she purchased it. It would’ve been burned or smashed, and then Julia would’ve been next, just for having it in the first place. She rubbed her shoulder absently, still digging around with one arm.

“It’s not here,” she muttered. “Sherlock, it’s not here! My CD player. It’s not in here. Did you take it out when you searched my bag?”

“You have a CD player?”

“ _Yes_. It was the only thing I could afford. Please,” she pleaded, “do you know where it is?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “I didn’t see a CD player when I searched your bag at the house. You must’ve left it somewhere else.”

“I didn’t,” Julia protested. “I never leave it anywhere but this bag. Moran didn’t like when I had things weighing me down. Interfered with all the running. He didn’t know about it. No one knew about it except me, and it’s gone now.”

“Relax. I’ll buy you an iPod if you stop complaining about it. I need quiet.”

Julia looked over at the man. He had put his fingertips together in front of his lips. If Julia hadn’t known him, she’d have guess Sherlock was praying. Something about Sherlock told her he wasn’t religious. Maybe it was because he acted like he was God himself. Maybe it was because he had murdered at least seventy people – granted, all Moriarty’s associates – in cold blood.

Julia couldn’t be sure.

She took out her CDs, which she bought every time she earned – or pickpocketed – enough money. Moran used to have her sit out on street corners collecting money from strangers like a beggar. Julia was never given any of the money she’d fooled people into donating. But if she took a handful of change or a dollar a day, Moran hardly noticed.

When he did, it wasn’t pretty, and Julia had to stop embezzling for a few weeks before starting up again.

The CDs were the best part of her life. Listening to loud music at two in the morning while Moran slept in the next room over, she could almost forget where and who she was. She could pretend she was a normal teenage girl with a phone and homework and arms devoid of scars.

Although she’d lost the player, Julia still had almost every CD she had managed to smuggle with her.

Moran had found one of her CDs, once. He still hadn’t had any idea about the player, so he’d just laughed and snapped the disk in half. It had been her favorite Coldplay CD, and it had taken weeks to save enough money to buy a replacement.

It was the only thing she had. Music.

“Really?” she asked, swallowing.

“Yes, along with your shoes, when we’re back in London.”

“I’ve never been to London. Is it nice there? I’ve heard it’s kind of rainy.”

“The climate is moderate, I suppose.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

“What’s so important about the CD player, anyway?” Sherlock asked, but Julia could tell he didn’t really care for the answer.

“Nothing,” she said, hating to explain herself. “It’s nothing.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and Julia got the feeling he would’ve done that even if she’d had a valid reason.


	2. My Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia meets another Holmes and has a nightmare.  
> Title is "My Disaster" by Seether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked, so I apologize if they sound American! Please correct me on anything that doesn't seem right (or is just blatantly wrong).

Sherlock slept for a few hours that night. It was more than he needed, actually. But he wanted to be well-rested when he talked to Mycroft the next morning. It was bound to be a busy day. After his meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock was to return to London immediately. He’d have to tell everyone he wasn’t actually dead. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. John. He’d have to tell John.

He had to deal with the girl on top of all that, too.

Sherlock definitely wasn’t going to keep her around; she had no use. Even if she wasn’t useless, there weren’t enough bedrooms in Baker Street for the three of them to live comfortably. Unless, of course, developments between him and John arose…

_But it’s too late for that_ , Sherlock thought.

John would be furious with him when he showed up. If he’d had any romantic feelings for Sherlock before he disappeared, they were surely gone now. In two years, John would’ve moved on. Just because Sherlock’s feelings never wavered, didn’t mean John’s were particularly sturdy to begin with. That was, if John _had_ any feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock supposed he could send Julia to boarding school if he couldn’t find anyone for her to live with. She’d be out of their hair for most of the year, and when she did come back for break, Sherlock could sleep on the couch.

He was still thinking when he followed Julia to the café downstairs. She walked right up to the cashier and started talking with him.

“Hey, Paulos,” she said. “This is my uncle. I told you about him this morning.”

“Hello, pretty girl,” he slurred in a terrible accent. “Are you here for lunch?”

“Yep. Whaddaya got for us, Paulos?” She smiled and leaned on the counter.

“Anything you want,” he replied, grinning.

_Sherlock_ wanted to be sick, but he watched Julia more closely. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. She'd crossed her arms, closing him off. Julia picked out two sandwiches and bags of crisps, a hot chocolate, and tea.

“Oh,” she said, knitting her brow, “how much do you think it'll be?” She glanced at Sherlock and back at the boy, fidgeting with her shirt sleeves. Paulos looked over too. He smiled knowingly, and for what should've cost at least twenty euros, they were charged ten.

Sherlock was impressed, but he didn't let it show. If she was trying to prove herself, she didn't need to.

“Thanks a million, Paulos,” Julia said, winking. Paulos blushed and waved as they made their way out of the café. Julia's smile disappeared as soon as Paulos was out of sight. Sherlock glanced at her thoughtfully.

“Why did you do that?”

“He likes me. He thinks I like him. I got us free food. We leave today. No harm done.”

“I suppose. You didn't even ask him to lower the price. I'd say I was impressed...”

“But?”

“I can do better.”

“I dare you to go downstairs and flirt with Paulos until he gives you free sandwiches,” Julia laughed. “He doesn’t like you. It’ll be tougher, but I’m sure you could do it.”

“If it were an adult my age, it would be fair,” Sherlock replied. “I used to flatter Molly to get into the morgue at Bart’s. It’s incredibly easy.”

“Do you normally hang out in morgues?” the girl asked.

“I’m a detective. I do have to examine bodies from time to time,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “At other times, I require certain body parts for experiments. Molly can procure them for me if I give her the right incentive.”

“Is this Molly girl your friend? I mean, do you see her often?”

“I suppose you could consider Molly a friend of mine.”

“And you let her believe you’re interested in her.”

“Yes. Is that not good?”

“No, not really. That’s emotional manipulation.”

“Says the girl who just flirted her way into free lunch.”

“I don’t _know_ Paulos. Molly’s your friend. You don’t do that to your friends.”

Sherlock sighed. People were just too sensitive.

“You said ‘adult,’” Julia continued. “Does that mean… well. Does that mean you fancy blokes, too?”

“I fail to see how that’s your business.”

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry,” she apologized, flustered. “Um, what kind of experiments do you do? With acquired body parts, that is.”

“I test various hypotheses, as would any scientist. I also doubt you would understand.”

Julia wrinkled her nose. “Try me.”

Sherlock had a feeling it was going to be a long day. He also had a feeling the girl wasn’t going to let much go without a fight, so he tried his best to explain some of his simpler experiments.

“Once, I wondered if chemicals in a particular brand or scent of perfume had anything to do with the rate of infestation in decaying bodies. I bought twelve different bottles of perfume and sprayed it on various body parts, all of which I stole from the morgue. John made me keep them outside. He thought he was inconveniencing me, but the experiment wielded much more accurate results after I had moved them out of the flat.”

Julia was silent.

“You didn’t get any of that, did you?”

“I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “I’m waiting for you to tell me the results. Do the chemicals actually affect the rate of infestation?”

“Most perfumes with high concentrations of menthol repel insects.”

“Menthol…”

“Essential oils of mint and eucalyptus, for example.”

“Oh. That’s cool.”

“Cool?”

“Yeah. It’s interesting. Fascinating, if you will.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Does that really help with your detective stuff?”

“Everything helps,” Sherlock replied, unlocking the door to their room. He stopped in the doorway, effectively blocking Julia’s view of the room. “For God’s sake!”

“Ah, Sherlock,” his brother greeted. “How nice to see you after all this time.”

“Mycroft. I was hoping I’d have another few hours of peace without you here.”

“Nonsense, Sherlock, that would mean more time spent away from London. Away from John Watson.” Mycroft smirked. “Do sit down, and introduce your new _friend_.”

Sherlock glanced back at Julia, who was clutching their bag of food with an annoyed expression on her face.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Scoot.”

 Sherlock scoffed but entered the room anyway, throwing himself into the chair across from his brother. Julia sat cross-legged on her bed and dug through the bag.

“Hey, catch this,” she said, holding up Sherlock’s sandwich.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Are you kidding? Then why did I just flirt my way into getting it for free?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wanted to see how you’d do. Which was better than I expected, actually.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” Julia muttered, biting into her own sandwich.

 “It’s probably the best you’re going to get,” Mycroft told her. “I wouldn’t hold your breath for a better one.”

“Do you want a sandwich, then, Mr. Holmes?” the girl asked, offering one to Mycroft.

“I couldn’t possibly,” he replied.

“My brother would be cheating on his diet if he ate such a thing as that,” Sherlock said, smirking. “Now, Mycroft, when can we leave?”

“We?”

 “Yes. When are Julia and I going back to London? I’d very much like to be back in Baker Street. I’ll have to explain everything to Mrs. Hudson first, then Lestrade and Molly. John, of course, although I think it’ll be a little more difficult to bring him back around.”

“Ah, John Watson. I’ve kept tabs on him, as you requested. He’s… been improving remarkably as of late.”

“Wonderful. When does our flight leave? It should take about three hours to arrive in London, should it not?”

 “Sherlock, I feel I should warn you-”

“Nonsense, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, spitting his brother’s words back at him. “Everything will be fine.”

“Sherlock. John’s not been well. It’s been hard for him, having to deal with the aftermath of your ‘death.’ The press hounded him for weeks before I had them silenced. He didn’t have time to grieve until after that. Then he-”

“Mycroft, everything will be fine.”

“Is John your boyfriend?” Julia asked, brushing salt off her fingers.

Sherlock’s head snapped around, and he stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Or… not?” she squeaked. “It’s just- you two were talking about him like- I’m sorry.”

“Talking about him like what?” Mycroft questioned.

“Like he’s more important than the other people. Almost as if he matters more than, like, getting Sherlock’s job back and making sure all of Moriarty’s network is really gone and stuff,” she said nervously. “Earlier you got mad when I asked you if you liked men or women but you didn’t actually answer me, so there’s a possibility you like men rather than or as well as women.”

“Go on,” Sherlock prodded.

“Well, you said you didn’t have friends, but you never said anything about a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I didn’t know if you had one or not. You were just telling me about your experiments out in the hall, and you said John made you take the body parts out of the flat. So that means you live together, or did, before you left. You could just be flatmates, but whenever you talk about him, you get this kind of faraway look, like you’re paying just enough attention to not seem rude.”

“Anything else you’d like to say?” Mycroft asked, one of his eyebrows raised.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it; I was just asking a question. I won’t- I’ll just be quiet now.”

“No,” Sherlock blurted. “Keep going. It’s fine. That was quite good.”

“Um, well, I don’t know how John acts around you, so I can’t tell anything about him. But your brother said he had a really hard time after you, er, _died_. What’s the deal with that, by the way? Moran never told me anything. I could just hear him on the phone sometimes. I don’t know who he was talking to, though. They used really stupid code names.”

“Code names? Can you give me an example?” Mycroft asked.

“Um, Moriarty was _the Boss_. Obvious. And stupid. Who wouldn’t guess that?”

 “Back to the topic at hand,” Sherlock said, shooting a glare at his brother.

 “Right. Anyway, I have a pretty good idea of how you feel about John. When I asked you if he was your boyfriend, you reacted like it was some huge secret I wasn’t supposed to know about. So I’m assuming you either told John, and he doesn’t feel the same way, or you haven’t told anyone because you’re afraid he doesn’t feel the same way. Then there’s the option that you two are together, but you’ve decided to keep your relationship secret because some people are weird about the whole gay thing,” the girl rattled off. “I don’t think that’s the one, though. Kind of unlikely, if you ask me. You don’t seem the type to care about what other people think of you.”

“Extraordinary,” Sherlock muttered.

“Not really,” Julia disputed. “I just… noticed. I mean, it wasn’t like it was hard.”

There’s one problem solved already,” Sherlock mused. “She’ll stay with me.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just show up with a child.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You cannot possibly care for this girl.”

“Care _about_ her? Probably not. Care _for_ her? I think so.”

“There’s an ego boost if I’ve ever had one,” Julia mumbled.

 “She’s a teenage girl, Sherlock. She’s not a puppy. She needs schooling.”

 “I know. Of course, I know. I’ll teach her.”

“Sherlock. No.”

“Yes, it’ll be fine.”

“She is a _teenage girl_. She needs a mother. We both know how you dealt with teenage girls in the past.”

“When I was a teenager, yes. But I’m not now, am I?” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson and Molly would love to help out.”

“Sherlock, this is not a good idea.”

“All my ideas are good ideas.”

“She will have _teenage girl_ problems.”

“She’s had worse problems, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. I won’t sit here and argue with you. Tell them she’s your niece, or your cousin’s child, I don’t care. When this comes back to harm you in the end, don’t come to me for help.” He looked at the girl, who was lounging on the bed with legs crossed at the ankles. “I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

“Shoot.”

~*~

Sherlock’s brother was taller than Sherlock was, and he had ginger hair that was thinning on top. He didn’t even look that fat, although Sherlock had teased him about his diet. He had thin lips and smiled as if it pained him. He wore a suit with a tie and everything, and he carried an umbrella although there wasn’t any sign of rain.

“Why were you living with Moran?” he asked.

“My mother left me with him when I was ten.”

“Why did she do that?”

“She had to work. Didn’t have time to take care of me, so…”

“What was her occupation?"

“Sherlock told me these questions would be difficult,” Julia said, rolling her eyes. “She was an assassin who worked under Moriarty’s influence. She was one of the best, actually. That’s why she left.”

“And what happened to your father? Did he work for Moriarty, too?”

“Ha, no. No, he blew his own brains out when my mother told him what she was. Couldn’t deal with it, I guess. Couldn’t even get bloody over it to take care of me, no. I think I look too much like her. I brought up bad memories.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

"I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“She changed it all the time. When I was ten, she was Lucy King. When I was seven, she was Amanda Moore. I don’t remember anything before that. My dad called her Sarah, I think, or something like that.”

“What can you tell me about Moran?”

“Well, he was incredibly moronic. He couldn’t do anything without direction, but he was brutal. Ruthless. He’d do anything Moriarty wanted him to. Think of, like, a rhinoceros, maybe. They’re not that smart, but they’re huge and dangerous. He actually tried to kill me once or twice. He didn’t care that I tried twice after that.”

“You tried to kill yourself?”

“If you’d lived with him for five years, you would’ve at least thought about it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. The only real pros were that I wouldn’t live under his rules anymore and that it’d really piss him off if he had to explain to my mother what happened. It didn’t seem worth it. Maybe I thought things were going to get better. I mean, I was right. Sherlock killed him.”

“Were you working for Moran or your mother?”

“Bloody hell, no. I’m glad those bastards are dead.”

“Why is that?”

“Let’s see. My mother was always distant, and when she _was_ around, she never wasted time telling me I wasn’t good enough. She killed people for money. Her choices made my dad kill himself. She dropped me off with Moran, and I never saw her again,” Julia recounted, using her fingers to keep tally. “For my twelfth birthday, she sent me a box of tampons and a book about puberty. Which would’ve been nice, I guess, if I wasn’t living with a Neanderthal. Nothing really makes up for that, you know?”

“I see.”

"I could go on for ages about Moran, but I just want to forget about it. It’s over. Eventually, the nightmares will stop and the memories will fade until I’m not sure if it was Seether I liked when I was thirteen or if it was some other band called Cold-something that I really fancied. I’ll remember why the scars are on my arms, but I won’t recall if it was Moran who put them there or if it was my doing. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“I believe I do. Thank you for your help.”

“It’s no problem, Mr. Holmes, if they all stay dead.”

“Mycroft, please. And don’t worry. They will.” He turned to Sherlock, who was oddly silent throughout the entire conversation. “I must be off, little brother. A car will be pulling up in about half an hour to bring you to the airport. Be ready. You have approximately five hours until you’re back in London. Put on some decent clothes.” Mycroft nodded towards the bathroom door before he left the room.

Sherlock shot up as soon as the door closed and shut himself in the bathroom. He came out a few minutes later wearing a dark suit and white dress shirt. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock wore no tie. A long black coat covered the man, and from its pockets he pulled a mobile phone and a wallet, actually smiling.

“Fantastic,” Sherlock muttered, steepling his fingers. “Once we’re back in London, Julia, we’ll have to buy new clothes. I’m sure you can’t be comfortable in what you’re wearing now.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “It’s been forever since I’ve been shopping.”

“Me too,” Sherlock replied, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “I’d get packed, if I were you.”

Julia looked down at herself, then at her duffel bag. She looked at Sherlock again and shrugged.

“I’m all packed.”

Sherlock huffed and dragged the dining chair next to Julia’s bed.

“As much as I loathe to admit it, I’m impressed,” he said, throwing himself on it. “You deduced my feelings very well. You got almost everything correct. How did you know to observe?”

“I just did it,” she replied. “It’s not like there was much to do with Moran besides watch people. Even when I snuck out, I didn’t have any money to spend on food or games. I just had myself and the people around me. I’m not even that good.”

“Nonsense, that was quite extraordinary.”

“No, it’s just really obvious. I hope you’re a better actor when he’s around.”

“He hasn’t figured it out yet,” Sherlock said. “I don’t think he will unless I tell him, which I probably won’t, considering he’s not gay.”

“He might be bisexual. You don’t know.”

“He only ever brought women around the flat.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Or, it could mean everything. Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?”

Julia chewed her lip. “Well, you never know.”

Julia occupied herself by examining her nails, which she kept long so she would always have a weapon, if only a meager one. She scratched her head, running her fingers through her short hair. She used to have long hair, so long it touched the small of her back. Julia missed the way it fell softly on her shoulders. But short hair was harder to grab.

Sherlock stood abruptly and announced the arrival of their car, so Julia grabbed her duffel bag and bounded down the stairs after him. They climbed into the car silently, and rode the first ten minutes likewise.

“Does this car have a CD player?” Julia asked quietly, chewing her lip. “I was wondering if maybe I could listen to some music…”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll be at the airport soon, though. There’ll be no music on the plane.”

Julia nodded and unzipped her duffel, which she’d kept on the seat between her and Sherlock. She pulled out her CDs and went through them, trying to decide what would make the best impression. Coldplay, she decided. Barely ever swore in their lyrics, she knew that much. Julia handed the disk to the driver, who popped it in the player without saying a word.

She closed her eyes and tapped her fingers on her thigh, singing in her head.

_Singing la lalalala la-ay…_

_There's no light over London today_

Sure enough, the song had just ended when the car parked. Sherlock jumped out of his side, leaving Julia to retrieve the CD from the driver.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, although she knew he was probably paid good money to drive around all day. “And for the music.”

He nodded, and Julia climbed out, only to stare at the small private jet that was waiting for both of them.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Yes, it’s great. Come along,” Sherlock called, standing at the base of a staircase leading up to the plane. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Sorry,” Julia mumbled, making her way to him. A woman grabbed her duffel bag from her hands and led her up the stairs. Julia immediately plopped down in one of the plush seats by a window. She put her head in her hands and stared outside.

Sherlock came in five minutes later and sat in the chair across from her. She gave a weak smile and went back to daydreaming.

“Were you talking to your brother?” she said sluggishly.

“No, one of his assistants. After we land, I’ll buy you new clothes. And shoes, of course. Then we’ll go to Baker Street. I have some, uh, people I need to see.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She and Sherlock watched out their respective windows as they began to lift from the ground. Julia felt her eyelids droop and sleepiness fog her brain. She curled her legs under her and rested her cheek on the back of the chair, yawning.

She’d had a long day, Julia told herself. It was perfectly reasonable to use the flight to take a four-hour nap.

Julia had the same nightmare she always had.

She was back in her house, the one she grew up in. Her pink and yellow polka dot sheets covered her legs. There were footsteps rumbling throughout the house. Each one felt like an earthquake to her. Julia tried to push the covers off, but her wrists were tied together.

The door opened, and there was Moran, smoking a cigarette. Julia kicked wildly, but the sheets clung to her legs, trapping her on the bed.

“Did you think you could hide forever?” he asked, his voice thick but brittle, ready to snap with the slightest bit of help. “Did you think you could get away from me?”

“No,” Julia whimpered. “No, I’m sorry. Please, don’t- don’t hurt me, please, I-”

“What happens when you run from me, Julia?” Moran grabbed her wrists and stretched out her arms.

“No! No-no-no, _please_.” Julia could feel tears streaming down her face. She hated every tang of salt on her chapped lips, hated the weakness it showed. “Please, you can’t, not again, I can’t.”

“Now, now,” Moran whispered. “You can do it. Can you get through it for me, Julia? Can you do it?”

“ _No_ ,” she screamed, and Moran ground the burning cigarette into the sensitive skin of her forearm. She felt her skin sizzle and pop, and she bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“None of that,” he growled. “Keep quiet. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

“Sebastian,” a woman called.

Moran removed the cigarette from Julia’s arm. The skin bubbled, and she started crying, staring at the angry red circle. Moran covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her.

“Sebastian, what are you doing?” the woman asked, stepping into the room.

Her hair was blonder than Julia’s. She had light blue eyes and thin lips. The woman was short but agile, and Julia knew she was as quick and surefooted as a fox.

Julia sagged in relief. She’d make Moran stop, Julia knew she would. But there was an overwhelming amount of horror consuming her, because she was dead. She was _dead_. She was _supposed_ _to be dead_. Sherlock killed her along with Moriarty’s other minions. And where was Sherlock, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be there for her? Wasn’t he supposed to swoop in with his stupid coat and rescue her?

“Julia, darling, what did you do this time?” she said.

“Nothing,” Julia sobbed, but Moran’s hand warped it into something unintelligible.

“What’ve we told you about trying to get away?” she asked, shaking her head. “Don’t even try, Julia. You’ll just get hurt.”

Moran moved to hold her down.

“No, please. I’ll be- good. I promise I w-won’t try to run away, I _pro-promise_. Please let me go,” she wailed. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be good.”

The woman sighed and left the room.

“No. _No_. Don’t let him hurt me again! Don’t leave me. _Come back!_ ”

She wriggled her wrists. Moran was never good at keeping her tied; her wrists were too thin and the rope too thick. A hand slipped free, and Moran grabbed her arm, shaking her. Julia lashed out and felt her nails sink into soft skin.

“Julia!”

Her eyes snapped open. Sherlock was still in the chair across from her, but he was holding his cheek, and there was blood on his fingers.

“Bloody hell,” Julia hiccupped. “Did I- do that? I'm so-sorry, oh God.”

“You had a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” she panted. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I-”

“It was Moran.”

“And my mother,” she whispered.

“Your- oh. Did they hurt you?”

Julia nodded and pulled her knees to her chest. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, I- I was just trying to defend myself. He- he grabbed me, but… it was just you.”

“I'm fine.”

“And you weren't there. You were supposed to be there, but you weren't, and my mother wasn't supposed to be there, and she _was_. She didn't care. She left me with him. Again.”

“I...”

“I'm sorry. I'm fine. It's fine.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. What a rare thing, and it happened at the worst times.

Julia looked at him, chewing her lip. It tasted like iron, and when she prodded them gently with her fingertips, they came back red. She sighed and rubbed her mouth with her sleeve.

“Are we almost there?”


	3. White Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits old friends, and Julia makes some new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked.  
> Title is "White Shadows" by Coldplay.

Sherlock eyed Julia for the rest of the flight back. He had to admit, grabbing her shoulder might not have been the best solution. He hadn't known what else to do. She was thrashing around; she could've hurt herself. What a great guardian Sherlock would be if she injured herself before they even arrived in London.

Sherlock clenched his fists. He’d seen the scars on her arms before, but he hadn’t paid them much attention. The thought of someone doing that to the girl – holding her down and listening, no, _savoring_ , her screams of agony – combined with the knowledge that she’d made some of those scars _herself_ … it made Sherlock wish he’d killed Moran slower.

He could still hear her whining in his head.

_Not again. I can’t._

_I’ll be good, I promise._

_Don’t leave me._

He took a deep breath and kept his face blank. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene in front of her now. It wouldn’t help at all.

Sherlock hadn’t smoked since he’d gotten rid of Alana Peters, and that was months ago. His body ached for a cigarette, yearned for nicotine coursing through his veins. Just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach, now, and he decided he’d have to pick up nicotine patches before they went back to the flat.

“Sherlock?”

“What? Oh. Yes, what is it?”

“Um.” Julia was chewing her lip again. “How many bedrooms are in your flat? I was just thinking, since John lives with you, there must be two, and most flats don’t have three bedrooms, unless things have changed since I was ten.”

“There are two bedrooms.”

“Okay. Um, so, how are we… I mean, where am I going to sleep?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Julia said, chuckling nervously.

“We will work everything out when we arrive.”

“Okay.”

The plane landed half an hour later, and Julia was relieved of her bag after being assured it would be waiting for her at Sherlock’s flat. They were ushered into a cab. Sherlock rattled off an address and leaned back in his seat. Julia sat up straight, her fists clenched in her lap. She kept her body turned towards the window. Sherlock saw her eyes dart around rapidly, taking in the landscape.

The cab stopped in front of a shopping district, and Sherlock paid while Julia climbed out. She stood completely still, staring at the people rushing by with wide eyes.

“Is everything all right?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ve never seen so many people in one place,” Julia admitted. Her voice was filled with awe and just a little bit of fear. “Is all of London this crowded?”

“There are quieter parts.”

“Do you live in one of the quieter parts?”

“I suppose so. Come along.” Sherlock held open a shop door and followed her in. “Pick whichever one you want. I don’t care how expensive it is; Mycroft owes me some favors. It’ll be important for us to be able to contact each other when needed.”

“Seriously? Whichever one I want?”

“Yes. Some of the newer models hold music, so if you purchase one of those, you don’t even need an iPod.”

“So, instead of an iPod, I’m getting a mobile phone.”

“Yes, it’s much more practical.”

“Okay.” Julia shrugged. “What should I get?”

“Probably one with lots of storage,” Sherlock said. “A touch-screen phone would be appropriate for someone your age. Anything you want. Mycroft is fairly wealthy, and we should use it to our advantage while we can that he feels guilty for my fake suicide.”

Julia smiled.

Sherlock left the store with a touch-screen phone, dark purple phone case, a pair of earbuds, and a happy teenage girl by his side. He took the phone and programmed his number into it immediately.

“I’ll show you how to download music onto it later,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“What clothes do you think you’ll need?” he asked. “I think we should get rid of all the clothing in that bag of yours. You can start over, if you will.”

“Can we burn them?”

“If Mrs. Hudson says yes, it’s a yes from me.”

“Good. Can we get shoes now?”

“I haven’t forgotten. This way.”

He let Julia roam the store, and she soon came up to him with two boxes in her arms.

“I can’t decide if I want light pink or bright blue.”

“Then get them both,” Sherlock answered dismissively. “Really, Julia, I loathe repeating myself. You can get whatever you want.”

Sherlock paid for the shoes and offered to let Julia change into the blue ones outside. He almost smiled when he saw how excited she became when she dropped her once-white shoes into a garbage can. She walked with a spring in her step that even Anderson would notice.

“I don’t know what clothes I want,” Julia admitted after a few minutes. “I’m looking at all these people and _their_ clothes, and I don’t know how I want to look. I don’t know what I want my clothes to say about me.”

“Well, who are you?”

Julia swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone. He’d wanted to do this later, but the situation called for it. Sherlock didn’t know a thing about girls’ clothing, and he didn’t want to spend his whole day shopping, so he called the one person he knew he could count on.

“Molly.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, hello.”

“I- you’re back. Is the network down? Are all of them… dead?”

“Yes, Molly. And I have you to thank for that. You were invaluable to the plan. To me.”

Sherlock saw Julia scowl at him. He mouthed, “What?”

“Are you flattering her just so she’ll do something for you?” Julia asked quietly.

He covered the mouthpiece. “No, Molly was truly indispensable when it came to my suicide. She faked the autopsy reports.” He went back to Molly, who was still stammering a thanks. “I need another favor, Molly. Nothing at all like last time, but just as daunting.”

“Anything you need, Sherlock, you know that.”

“I need you to take my niece shopping. As soon as possible, to be honest.”

“You have a niece?”

“That’s what Mycroft says. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“O-kay. I’m just finishing up work now. Let me take a shower and get changed, would you? I’ll meet you at Baker Street around five-thirty?”

“Yes, thank you, Molly. We’ll be there.”

“Oh, it’s just shopping. It’ll be fun.”

“Goodbye, Molly.”

“I’ll see you later. I can’t wait to meet your niece!”

Sherlock hung up the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He strode to the main street and motioned for Julia to follow. He hailed a taxi, and one stopped immediately.

“Where are we going now?” Julia asked, chewing her lip.

“Scotland Yard,” Sherlock answered. “I have a Detective Inspector to visit.”

Walking through the halls of Scotland Yard gave Sherlock an odd kind of nostalgia. He breathed in, welcoming the familiarity with masked glee. Julia walked briskly behind him, playing with her sleeves and picking at her lips.

They almost made it to Lestrade’s office.

“Bloody hell!” Donovan shrieked. “The Freak’s alive! How in the world are you _alive_?”

The silence that followed was louder than Donovan’s words. Everyone in the Yard turned to look at him, their mouths falling open as soon as they recognized him.

“Freak?” Julia whispered, glancing up at him. “Sounds like someone’s jealous of you.”

Sherlock smirked. “I was hoping to put this off, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. Long story short, I’m not dead. Very much alive. I have a pulse and everything.”

“How can you have a pulse without a heart?” Donovan asked, crossing her arms.

“You should know,” Julia said loudly. “You seem to function pretty well.”

“Come, Julia, let’s go."

“Oh, my God, you’ve got a kid.” Donovan walked over and knelt in front of Julia. She reached out to touch her arm. “Did he kidnap you? You’re safe now; it’s all right.”

Julia jumped away from her hand and moved behind Sherlock, although he didn’t think she knew she was doing it.

“Why would I kidnap a fifteen-year-old girl and bring her straight to the police?” Sherlock questioned. “Honestly, Donovan, I’m smarter than that. I see in my absence you’ve regressed to your natural state of stupidity.”

Sherlock turned abruptly, blocking Donovan’s view of Julia.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Who are we meeting, again?”

“Ah, yes. Follow me. Lestrade is a good friend of mine.”

“Did you give him some kind of warning?” Julia asked. “Like, you called Ms. Hooper.”

“I’m sure Mycroft has kept him up to date. I can’t tell John, no, Sherlock, don’t do that,” Sherlock mocked, raising his voice to a higher pitch. “I’m sure it’s hard to keep such important secrets from the ones you love.”

“So Mr. Lestrade knows what you’ve been doing this whole time? Murdering people.”

“Nonsense, Julia, I’ve just been cleaning.”

“Cleaning,” she repeated, unamused.

“Yes, cleansing the world of their presence.”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s fine, then.”

“I’m glad you see my way.”

“So your brother and Mr. Lestrade…”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Right after I left, too. I suspected it was just their shared emotional attachment to me that brought them together-”

Julia was laughing. “Are you saying you’re the basis of someone else’s relationship?”

“No, I’m saying I thought I was. After Mycroft told Lestrade I was still alive, I was sure they were going to split up. Alas, it wasn’t so. They’re still _together_. It sickens me.”

“Your brother. The one I met. He has a… boyfriend.”

“Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock rapped on Lestrade’s office door before opening it and walking right in. The man looked as if he had seen a ghost. He stood shakily and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. Lestrade enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted, patting his back awkwardly. “I’m back.”

“I can bloody tell,” he muttered. “You bastard. Can’t tell you how good it is to see you, mate. Breathing and everything!”

“He’s not going to hug me next, is he?”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade mused, eyeing Julia. “Is that the surprise? You’ve got a kid?”

“She’s my niece, if you choose to believe Mycroft.”

“If I don’t?”

“Well, then you’ll just have to keep on wondering.”

“I’ll get it out of one of you sooner or later.”

Sherlock made a face and turned to Julia. “I don’t think so. Lestrade, this is Julia. She is my niece and will be staying with me from now on. Julia, this is George Lestrade. You can trust him.”

“It’s Greg,” Lestrade grumbled.

“Cut me some slack, Lestrade, I’ve been dead for two years. I’m bound to forget something.”

“You didn’t even know it before you swan-dived off the roof of that bloody hospital.”

“Mycroft is your boyfriend,” Julia said, chewing her lip. “Why? He seemed like a dick when he came to talk to us.”

“You got the sibling rivalry bit, didn’t you?”

Julia nodded.

“Sherlock’s different when he’s not around his brother, isn’t he?”

“Oh, okay, I get your point. They’re just like that to each other.”

“Yep.”

“This is a very stimulating conversation, Lestrade, but there are things Julia and I have to do.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile. “Put Lestrade’s number in your phone.”

“Uh, why?”

“For emergencies. Lestrade is the smartest officer the Yard has. If I am incapacitated, you call him, and he’ll be able to help you.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well, I’m hardly going to give her Donovan’s number, am I?”

“Oh, she saw you, then.” Lestrade sighed. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it, whatever she said.”

“I’m sure she did.” Sherlock turned back to Julia. “I should probably feed you before you head out with Molly. I know just the place. Goodbye, Lestrade. Text me if there are any new cases.”

“Is Donovan the pretty black woman?” Julia asked absently, checking the number she’d typed into her phone.

“Mm, I don’t know about pretty,” Sherlock answered.

“Just because she’s unpleasant doesn’t mean she doesn’t have good qualities.”

“Name three.”

“She’s said ten words to me! How the hell am I supposed to know her good qualities after ten words?”

“You can’t, because she doesn’t have any.”

“Everyone has good qualities.”

“Everyone. Even your mother? Moran?” Sherlock realized his mistake when Julia froze.

“My mother was smart,” Julia said. “Moran’s heart was as black as his soul. If you held your hand in front of your face, you wouldn’t be able to see it.” She swallowed. “Don’t _dare_ compare some woman who calls you childish names to that man.”

 _Great job, Sherlock_ , a voice scolded him. _What a wonderful father you ma-_ father _?_

“Julia, I… Julia.” He stepped in front of her and grabbed her shoulder. She yelped and jerked backwards. Her back hit the wall.

“No, don’t. I didn’t- Julia?”

“I’m fine, I’m good. Sorry, I just-”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m sorry for- for not thinking.”

“I’m fine,” Julia repeated. “I’m good. Let’s just go, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and strode out of the Yard, mentally berating himself. The girl had been living with an _assassin_ who worked for the most dangerous man Sherlock had ever met. Of course she’d been abused. Of _course_ she’d have an aversion to being touched. He should’ve seen it sooner.

They climbed into a taxi once they were outside, and it dropped them off at Angelo’s ten minutes later. Sherlock turned to Julia as she climbed out.

“Angelo might try to hug you.”

She swallowed but nodded stiffly. “Okay.”

“You can trust him. I once proved him innocent of murder. Turns out he was robbing a house on the other side of town. He feels so grateful that he ‘forgets’ to charge me for anything.”

“That’s… nice, I guess. Free food is always a plus.”

“Yes.”

Angelo greeted them loudly, clapping Sherlock on the back. He grinned and patted Julia’s shoulder, unaware of how tensely she stood.

“What a beautiful young lady!” he exclaimed. “Surely she’s not your daughter, Sherlock. I haven’t seen her around before.”

“My niece. She’s staying with me from now on.”

“Ah, wonderful!” Angelo handed them a menu. “Anything you want, it’s on the house.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Julia, who smirked and shrugged. Julia ordered lemonade and some kind of pasta with red sauce. When Sherlock revealed he wasn’t going to eat anything, Julia quickly convinced him otherwise – “I’m at an extremely influential point in my life. What kind of example are you setting for me?” – and he settled for his usual. He only ate about half of it, but Julia was pacified.

“Right,” Sherlock said after they’d eaten. “Baker Street is just a ten minute walk away. We _could_ get a cab, but-”

“No, that’s okay. Molly is going to be there soon, right?”

“I think she already is,” Sherlock mused, checking the time on his phone. “That’s all right. We’ll be there soon enough.” He cleared his throat. “You can tell Molly if you’d like. About who you are. She won’t tell anyone else.”

“All right,” Julia said.

“You’ll probably need a key to the flat,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has an extra one lying about. She’s my- she’s our landlady. She’ll adore you. She might want to hug you, too.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to carry that?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to her bags. “I should’ve asked sooner, but you can probably tell thinking of others isn’t really my area.”

“You jumped off a building and pretended to be dead for two years so Moriarty wouldn’t hurt your friends. I think you’re good.”

Sherlock smirked.

Molly was waiting outside 221B when they arrived. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw him. He gave her a quick hug and introduced Julia as his niece once again.

Molly smiled and shook Julia’s hand, saying, “Just call me Molly. _Ms. Hooper_ makes me sound like my mother.”

“Remember, anything you need, get it,” Sherlock reminded the girl, handing her his card. “Don’t worry about the price. Mycroft is treating us. Text me if you need anything.” He looked at Molly. “Thank you, Molly. Julia and I were both, well, a bit _daunted_ by the task, myself more so than her. I’m grateful. Oh, and feel free to buy something for yourself, too. My brother won’t mind.”

Sherlock unlocked the door and let Julia put her things in the sitting room. He looked around, breathing in the stale air of his flat. Home. He was home, and it was perfect except for the John-shaped hole that was so glaringly obvious. Sherlock threw himself into his chair and felt a crinkling in his back pocket. He took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. On it was an address halfway across town. Under that were the words: _Be careful. - MH_

 _Damn you, Mycroft_.

“Sherlock Holmes,” a voice called, “you come down here right now and explain the meaning of this!”

Struggling to explain to Mrs. Hudson why he had left and come back with a teenage girl, Sherlock paused only to watch Julia smile at him before closing the door behind her.

~*~

“So, what are we looking for?” Molly asked, smiling. Molly smiled a lot. “Like, tops or bottoms or shoes…”

“Everything, I think,” Julia answered. “Sherlock bought me new shoes earlier today, but that’s all I have. All my other clothes are old and falling apart. Sherlock said we could burn them. I’m looking forward to it.”

“So, you mean makeup and soap and underwear… literally everything.”

“Except shoes,” Julia replied, wriggling her foot. “I’m good there.”

“Do you know what you want to look like at least?”

Julia shook her head. “I’ve been watching people all day. I saw lots of girls in those legging things and combat boots, and I liked how they looked, but then I saw a girl with a skirt with this pink and white flower pattern and a denim jacket and I wasn’t so sure after that.”

“Well, why did you like the leggings and combat boots girls?”

“They looked tough. One of them had, like, three piercings in one of her ears. Do you think Sherlock would mind if I got mine pierced?” Julia asked, and Molly shrugged. “Anyway, I think I’d look stupid in skirts. I don’t like my knees.”

“All right. I’m thinking we get the most important stuff first, like underwear and bras and things. Then we can get some real clothes. And lastly, we’ll focus on the miscellaneous things like soap and makeup. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Julia agreed. “I have no idea what I’m doing. For some reason, I don’t think Sherlock would’ve done well with bra shopping.”

“Oh, he’d get all confused by cup sizes and specialty ones. ‘Why do women feel the need to wear push-up bras? Are they trying to compensate for their dull personalities?’”

“‘What is the purpose of these silly little polka dots? It’s not like anybody but you will ever them.’”

“Yes,” Molly giggled, “I think you’re better off shopping with me.”

Julia really liked Molly. Molly had long brown hair and warm eyes. She was nice and smiled a lot, and she seemed okay with Julia being there. Molly didn’t ask any questions about where Julia came from or where her parents were or why she was staying with Sherlock. She just wanted to know Julia’s favorite colors and patterns so they could maybe put her in something with that.

“You have really nice nails,” Molly said, nodding down at her hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve had mine done. What do you think?”

Julia smiled. “Yeah, that sounds great. After the clothes?”

“After the clothes. And we can add nail polish to our list of cosmetics.”

“Pajamas,” Julia blurted. “I almost forgot about pajamas.”

“Okay. We have a lot of work to do.”

Shopping for socks, underwear, and bras really wasn’t that exciting, but when Molly led her to a store with a bright interior and punk music playing in the background, Julia perked up.

“I’ve never been much of a rebel myself,” Molly said, browsing through a few racks of jeans, “but I used to like the style when I was your age. Grew out of it quickly for some reason.” She smiled shyly. “Wasn’t really me, I guess. Skinny jeans and combat boots, that is.” She held up a pair of dark gray skinny jeans with small black polka dots. “I think these are cute. What do you think?”

“I like them.”

“What do you like about them?”

“The dots, I think. And the color.”

“We can work with that. Let’s see if we can find a shirt to go with these jeans. You can really use any color with this gray.”

Julia walked around the store slowly, flicking through shirts and sweaters, keeping mental tabs on ones she liked. She picked out a black one with long sleeves and a hot pink lipstick print on the front. She showed Molly, who smiled and held up three more pairs of jeans. Julia put the light blue one back on the rack almost immediately, but kept the dark red and blue ones slung over her arm.

“Do you have a favorite band?” Molly asked. “I know a little shop not far from here that has t-shirts with band logos. It’s their whole business, really.”

“Mostly Coldplay,” Julia replied. “The Smiths. A little bit of Arcade Fire. I like this one.” She grabbed a white tank top with a black palm tree sketched on the side. “But I’d like something to cover my arms.”

“We’ll get you a jacket,” Molly replied, not questioning. Julia was relieved. She didn’t want to explain too much right now. Maybe after they’d finished shopping. “Denim, maybe, or faux leather.”

“I don’t know about leather,” Julia replied.

“Okay, we’ll look around. Why don’t you try all that on?” Molly said, pointing to the back of the store. “The changing rooms are in there. I’ll keep looking for jeans.”

“All right.”

Julia had just put on the dark red jeans when there was a knock on the changing room door.

“Molly?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, it’s me. I think you might like these ones.”

Julia cracked the door open, and a hand holding a baby pink sweater, a light black jacket, and two skirts popped through the opening. She opened the door all the way, smiling faintly at the woman standing there. Molly’s eyes flicked to her bare arms, which weren’t really so bare at all, but her grin didn’t waver.

“I like those jeans,” she said. “You said you liked skirts, so I brought a couple so you could see how you look. They have pockets.”

“Thanks.” Julia took the clothes and hung them on the pegs around the mirror. She slipped on the jacket. It covered even her wrists. The hem was really short, ending at about her waist, but Julia liked how it looked. “Do you think this is good?”

“I think you look really cute. You could even wear a skirt with that instead of the jeans.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll just…” One of the skirts was a green and yellow flower print. Julia handed it back to Molly. “Sorry, green’s not my color.”

“Right,” Molly said, smirking and closing the door.

The other skirt was dark blue with tiny white skull-and-crossbones on it. The black elastic waist made the fabric flare out at the hips. Well, where Julia’s hips would’ve been if she’d had any.

She took off the new clothes and wriggled back into her old ones.

They left the shop with three bags – four pairs of jeans, one skirt, three t-shirts, two sweaters, and a jacket. They’d found pajama bottoms and plain t-shirts in the clearance bin, so Julia got three sets of those, too.

The sun was starting to set as they walked into a beauty salon Molly liked.

“Can I get my hair cut?” Julia asked, eyeing the hairdressing tables near the front of the store. “I hacked my hair off by myself and without a mirror.”

“Sure,” Molly said.

A woman with from-a-bottle ginger hair walked into the room, drying her hands on a towel. “Hello, ladies. My name is Victoria. What can I do for you today?”

“She’d like a haircut, but just a trim, and we’d both like manicures, if that’s possible.”

“Of course. Sit up here, could you?” Victoria patted the chair in front of the mirror. Julia climbed up, closing her eyes. “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes,” the woman said easily.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, darling.” She picked up a pair of scissors and started snipping. “Do you want me to do layers? It’ll make it look thicker.”

“Um, okay, if you think it will look good.”

When the woman said she was done, Julia peeled open her eyes and stared at herself. Her hair looked good; she had to give Victoria some credit. It looked soft and fluffy, not dull and heavy like it had before. It was actually straight this time, too. It fell neatly to Julia’s chin instead of here and there.

“Thanks.”

“So, you like it?”

“Yeah, I think it looks really good.”

“Lovely, darling. Why don’t you pick your color, and you and your mother can come meet me at one of the tables over there.”

“She’s not my mother. She’s… Molly.”

“Sorry. Bring your Molly over to my table.”

“They sell hair products,” Molly said. “We can check that off our list.”

The girls left twenty minutes later with colored nails and another bag of goodies for Julia. They walked into a shop that sold makeup exclusively. There were pictures of models all along the walls, women with bright red lips and golden eyelids. Their lashes were long and thick, and their cheeks were the perfect shade of pink. Molly grabbed a basket and was already browsing the aisles.

“Am I supposed to look like that?” Julia asked, pointing to yet another magazine cover.

“No,” Molly laughed. “We’ll get you some lip gloss, but the red lipstick might have to wait until you’re older. Do you want eyeliner or eye shadow or both?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, eyeliner is this little pencil that you use to, um, line your eye. Eye shadow is a powder that you rub all over your eyelid.”

“Eyeliner sounds like less work.”

“All right. Black eyeliner it is. Now, be careful with mascara. If you poke yourself in the eye with the brush, it _hurts_. Lengthening or thickening?”

“I- what? I don’t care. Thickening.”

“Okay. You can go pick out some nail polish if you want. I’ll just look around, I think.”

Gripping three bottles of nail polish in her hand, Julia found Molly again in the skincare aisle. She’d thrown acne soap and makeup remover into the basket. She was looking at shaving cream and razors.

“Do you know what you normally use to shave your legs?”

Julia shook her head. “I, uh, haven’t. I don’t know how.”

Molly chewed her lip. “I’ll show you how to do that later, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

“Body wash is over there,” she said, pointing to the edge of the shelf. “You could pick out a few so it lasts a few months.” Molly grabbed two cans of shaving cream and a packet of disposable razors and put them in the basket gently.

“Okay.”

 _There are too many scents,_ Julia thought. _What does_ Boardwalk Sunset _smell like?_

Julia uncapped the top and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and put it back on the shelf. When she was ten, soap magically appeared in the cabinet when she ran out. She never had to buy any. And it was always something straightforward, like strawberry, nothing like _Cashmere Glow_ or _Meadow Breezes_. The most complicated scent she'd had then was _Berry Blast!_ , but that was made from sour raspberries.

Julia grabbed three of the simplest ones – “I actually know what vanilla smells like.” –and gave Molly Sherlock's card once again.

“Can I get my ears pierced?”

“Maybe you should ask Sherlock first.”

_(6:48pm) Can I get my ears pierced?_

_(6:51pm) You can make your own decisions. –SH_

_(6:52pm) But would it bother you?_

_(6:55pm) No, it wouldn’t, although I don’t see why it should matter what I think. – SH_

_(6:55pm) Well, I am living under your roof._

_(6:57pm) Technically, we are both living under Mrs. Hudson’s roof. – SH_

_(6:59pm) What if I dyed my hair magenta?_

_(7:02pm) It would burn my eyes, and I need those to work. – SH_

_(7:02pm) So, yes to ear piercings, no to magenta hair dye. Got it._

“What did he say?” Molly asked.

“He doesn’t care, as long as I don’t get back to Baker Street with pink hair.”

“We can manage that, I think.” 


	4. Youth Without Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Julia pay a visit to one John Watson.  
> Title is "Youth Without Youth" by Metric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked.  
> Please keep in mind the tags! I would hate for someone to be triggered while reading.

By the time Sherlock was done arguing with – and then consoling – Mrs. Hudson, the sun had set, and it was much too late to visit John. Sherlock decided to wait until the next morning. The only thing left to debate was whether or not he’d bring Julia along.

John would be angry with him, furious even. He'd probably want nothing more to do with him. Sherlock could spend the rest of his life trying to convince John to forgive him, and John might decide not to. He could show up tomorrow and be sent away. Sherlock could be an unwelcome nuisance, John could be disgusted with him, betrayed.

_He_ was _betrayed,_ Sherlock thought. _By you._

_But it was for his own good,_ he argued with himself. _John would've died if you hadn't jumped._

He's not going to see it that way. He watched you throw yourself off a building. He's not going to get over that overnight.

Maybe John would be so overwhelmed by joy or relief and possibly forget his soul-crushing anger. He could laugh and smile and hug Sherlock and hold him close because _“Christ, Sherlock, I missed you so much, and you can't leave me again, do you understand me?”_

Or, John's rage could consume him and he could end up murdering Sherlock himself. That outcome was much more likely.

What would Sherlock even say?

“I'm sorry I lied about killing myself and let you believe I was dead for two years?” “Do you remember that time when I flung myself off Bart's? Yeah, that. That was all fake, and I’m not actually dead.”

Sherlock couldn't imagine that going over so well. Maybe he would bring Julia along. He doubted John would try to harm him in front of a teenage girl. John was too _good_ for that.

There was also the matter of explaining Julia. Sherlock could reason why he’d left, why he’d spent two years away from London, away from _John_ , but housing Julia had been a decision made in haste, partly just to annoy his brother. There wasn’t a real upside to having her around, but he liked her company anyway.

He picked up his violin and ran his fingertips over the wood. He half-smiled and started playing, just as well as he had two years ago.

Sherlock decided to let Julia come with him. It was probably best to get all the surprises out of the way. What if John wanted to move back in with Sherlock and saw Julia in the flat without an explanation? If he kept too much from him, John might begin to suspect Sherlock of hiding other things – which he was, but he’d tell John about those eventually. He didn’t want John to worry about him. With Julia’s cigarette burns and Sherlock’s whiplashes, he’d go into doctor mode indefinitely. The thought almost made Sherlock chuckle.

The door unlocked, and Julia and Molly walked in, each carrying bags in both hands.

“Hey, Sherlock,” Julia greeted, grinning. “Where should I put all this stuff?”

“Upstairs for now,” Sherlock replied, drawing out a note.

“Thanks, that’s specific,” she mumbled.

Sherlock half-smiled and put his violin back in its case. “Let me take those,” he said, prying the bags from Julia’s hands. “Follow me.”

Sherlock led them upstairs to John’s old room. It was actually a bit smaller than Sherlock’s, but it seemed larger. While Sherlock’s room was a mess of dirty laundry and half-finished experiments, this one was stripped bare except for a wardrobe and a metal bedframe with – thank _God_ – the mattress still there.

“You’ll need bed sheets,” Sherlock said. “And a pillow. All mine haven’t been washed in more than two years. I’ll go ask Mrs. Hudson if she can spare a set.”

Sherlock returned ten minutes later with a set of white bedclothes and a plate of biscuits baked by Mrs. Hudson herself. She was already back to making food for him.

_Wonderful_ , Sherlock thought, without a hint of his usual sarcasm.

Julia was sitting cross-legged on the mattress when Sherlock went back into the room. She was talking to Molly animatedly, using her hands to make wild gestures that seemed to make sense to her. Her nails were blue, Sherlock noticed.

“Mrs. Hudson sent biscuits,” Sherlock announced. “She really does create the best baked goods.” He handed Julia the plate of biscuits and dropped the sheets on the bed. “My apologies for the state of the room.”

“No, it’s great,” Julia protested, her mouth full. “It’s really mine?”

“Obviously.”

“I can do whatever I want in here?”

“Within reason, I suppose.”

Molly frowned at him.

“Um, you can’t have… boys… in here,” Sherlock guessed. “Or… drugs.”

Molly shook her head, but Julia nodded anyway. “Noted,” she said.

“We can see Mrs. Hudson about painting,” Molly suggested. “It looks a bit drab in here for a teenager’s room.”

“Yes, Molly, grand idea,” Sherlock said, although the idea of painting made him feel sick. _Permanence_. “I’ll be going back downstairs now. Have fun doing whatever it is you came up here to do.”

“Wait,” Julia said, swallowing. She bit her lip. “Do you want to see some of my clothes?”

“Oh, I… that’s not necessary. You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, um, okay,” she replied. “I’ll come downstairs later.”

“All right.”

Sherlock picked up his violin and continued playing. What if John wanted to move back in? His room was now Julia’s. She was probably going to paint it some garish color like bright red or pink. He and Sherlock couldn’t share a room; Sherlock might have less of a need for sleep, but that didn’t mean he had no need at all. John couldn’t sleep on the sofa – it’d be hell for his leg and shoulder. Sherlock definitely didn’t want to sleep on the sofa.

But maybe John wouldn’t want to move back in. Maybe he’d live on his own, where he could bring women to stay the night without having to check the kitchen for experiments. Sherlock drew out a note, turning the piece into something his own, tight and nervous.

He’d find out tomorrow.

Molly left and Julia curled up in John’s – er, the chair. She appeared to be doing nothing but listen to Sherlock play. When he finally put his violin down, it was after one in the morning, and Julia was snoring in the armchair. Sherlock briefly wondered what the point of giving her John’s room was if she was just going to sleep in the sitting room. He heard her start to whimper, and empathy knocked on the door to his heart.

Being pushed around by someone bigger and stronger than herself, feeling alone and unloved, not daring to hope for a future – these weren’t unfamiliar experiences to Sherlock, though his scars had long since faded. At least when Sherlock’s classes ended, so did the torture. Julia spent almost all of her time with the man abusing her.

So he did what he had done every time John had had a nightmare. He picked up his violin, and he played loud enough to wake her. He watched from under his eyelashes as Julia stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, and she looked around, dazed.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s fine. Why don’t you go upstairs, though? It gets chilly at night.”

“Yeah, sure,” Julia agreed, yawning. “What’s the plan for tomorrow? Or today, rather.”

“We’re going to see John.”

“Oh, I’m going too, then. All right. Wake me up whenever.” She stood and trudged up the stairs. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock muttered.

He played softer pieces until he was sure she’d fallen asleep again, and he went to bed himself shortly afterwards. Sherlock’s mind raced with the possible outcomes of the next morning’s meeting. He had to force himself to sleep.

When he woke up, it was a little after six. He changed into day clothes and grabbed his laptop. Sherlock looked up John’s blog and was surprised to find new entries, the first dated a week after his death.

_As most of you may know already, Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, is dead. He took his own life last week. Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. He wasn’t faking any of it. He was brilliant, yes, and an absolute idiot, but not a fraud. No one will ever convince me differently because I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I guess it got to him, though. Moriarty’s game. That impenetrable armor had to break sometime, hadn’t it? I just wish I could’ve helped him. I wish it was different. I wish he was here with me._

_~_

_Sherlock was my best friend. He saved me, time and time again. He was judgmental, and rude, and he could be a complete arse sometimes, but he was a good man. He helped people. He helped me. But he’s gone now, and I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I’ve no idea._

_~_

_I see him everywhere. He’s in the kitchen, playing around with one of the beakers I haven’t had the stomach to throw out. He’s in his armchair, plucking on the strings of his violin. He’s on the sofa, complaining about a case and sticking nicotine patches on his arms. He’s sulking right now, probably because I’ve decided to move out of the flat. I can’t take it anymore. I see him, but I can’t touch him. I can’t talk to him or listen to his violin or argue about the toes in the fridge. I never thought I’d wish for body parts in the fridge. But I’d do anything to have him back._

The last one was dated early the year before. _  
I have two announcements for those of you who have kept up with the blog here._

  1. _I think it’s time to give up the blog. Sherlock is gone, and he’s the only reason it even exists. Nothing happens to me, anyway._
  2. _I’ve met a woman named Mary. She’s helped me deal with Sherlock’s death, and I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. I’ve decided that Mary is the perfect woman for me, and we’re engaged to be married._



_I hope you all have enjoyed Sherlock and my adventures. I’m sorry they had to end. Good luck and best wishes to all of you who believed. To all of you who doubted or spoke against him, go fuck yourselves._

_John Watson_

Sherlock sighed. Of course. John had met a woman. Mary. He’d been able to keep a girlfriend without Sherlock there to ruin all of his dates. He didn’t have a weird flatmate he was forced to explain to her. They’d probably already gotten married. _Married_. She was probably small and soft and nothing like Sherlock, or any man at all, actually.

Julia came downstairs sometime later in gray jeans and a pink sweater that matched her shoes. She sat delicately in the red armchair, her hands folded on her lap.

“Good morning,” she said.

“It is indeed morning, but I don’t see any particular reason for it to be good.”

“Sorry.” Julia bit her lip. “Sherlock… I was wondering if you’d, uh, help me clean my ear piercings.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“If I get an infection, you’ll have to pay for a doctor’s visit _and_ antibiotics.”

“In that case, I suppose I can assist you.”

“Thanks.”

Julia needlessly read the instruction sheet to Sherlock, who just sighed and dabbed gently at the rings with a wet cotton ball. She winced a couple of times, but he said nothing, only continued cleaning. By the time they were done, Julia’s stomach was growling audibly.

“I suppose you need to eat,” Sherlock muttered. “I believe the fridge is stocked. Mycroft’s minions were here before you and I arrived. Make it quick. I’d like to get this over with.”

“Okay,” Julia replied. She reappeared in the sitting room a minute later with an apple and a plastic bottle of orange juice. “Let’s go.”

John’s house was exceedingly dull. It was a short walk from sidewalk to short staircase, and the pathway was lined with yellow and orange flowers. He tried to picture John gardening but shook his head. No, John’s leg wouldn’t allow him to crawl around in dirt for a few hours to plant flowers. It must’ve been _Mary_. The house itself was a two-story abode made of pale yellow brick. The door and shutters were white.

_Yes, exceedingly dull, indeed_ , Sherlock decided. _How can John stand it?_

Sherlock rapped on the door nervously, his heart pounding in his ears. He kept his face blank and turned to Julia, who was just finishing the apple she’d brought.

“No matter what happens between us today, you can trust John Watson with your life. I certainly do.”

“It’ll be fine,” Julia assured him, her mouth turning up in a small smile. She threw the apple core into the flowers. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Fertilizer,” she shrugged.

The door opened, and there was John. He’d put on a bit of weight, and his hair was grayer, but that was to be expected; it had been two years since Sherlock had last seen him.

He took one look at Sherlock and closed the door. Before Sherlock could knock again, John reopened the door and frowned.

“No, this is supposed to be over. I’m not supposed to see you anymore. I moved out of the flat. What more could you possibly want?” John mumbled, seemingly to himself. “You’re not really here. You’re dead, Sherlock.”

“No, I’m very much alive. You can take my pulse if you’d like.”

John’s face went white, then green, and finally settled on red. It reminded Sherlock of Christmas. He clenched his jaw. His eyes sparked.

“You bastard.”

“John, I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can. Oh, I’m _sure_ you can. But here’s the thing, Sherlock. I don’t want to hear it.”

“John, please, listen to me.” Sherlock put his foot in the door as John tried to slam it shut. He didn’t flinch. “There’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Of course. What, you finally cared what other people thought of you? You couldn’t deal with everyone thinking you were a fake?” John asked. “It can’t be that they were right. Because you’re not – weren’t. You weren’t a fake.”

“No.”

“Why should I let you in?” John demanded. He shook with barely controlled fury, his fist clenched and his knuckles white.

“Don’t I get a chance to explain myself?”

He seemed to consider this for a moment before opening the door fully. “Ten minutes. You have ten minutes to make your case before I kick you out and never have anything to do with you again.”

Summoning Julia to his side, Sherlock stepped into the house. John led them into the living room, which was nearly all olive green. He stopped and stared at the girl trailing behind Sherlock, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Why do you have a child?”

~*~

“My name is Julia,” she said. “Hello.”

“Er, hi. That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

“She’s my niece. I-”

“I thought that was just our cover story, though,” Julia whispered. “You said I could trust him. So, we can trust him with me, right?”

“You’re not keeping anything else from me,” John ordered. He crossed his arms and sat ungracefully in an armchair near a television. He motioned for them to do the same, and Sherlock and Julia ended up on a loveseat across from him.

Sherlock glanced between the two of them. “I… I suppose. Julia, if you want to…”

“Me? Okay,” she muttered. “Um, well, my mother worked for Moriarty. When I was ten, my dad found out and killed himself. My mother left me with a man named Sebastian Moran so she could continue to work. Moran was a big, looming, blundering idiot, so he wasn’t that important to the network. Just the messenger-boy-slash-babysitter who happened to work as a hit man in his spare time.” She stopped and glanced up at Sherlock. “I think it’s your turn now.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t want to jump. There was simply no other choice. Moriarty had his assassins trained on you. He was going to kill you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Unless I killed myself. I- well, I had some help from Mycroft. I didn’t actually _want_ to die, you see. There was no way to call them off, you must believe me.”

John just stared at him blankly.

“After I died, Mycroft thought it was the perfect opportunity for-”

“Oh, so it’s Mycroft’s fault, then? It’s his fault I never got a phone call, or-or a letter, or even a bloody postcard. Not even to let me know you were alive.”

“I couldn’t contact you. They were monitoring you. They would’ve noticed. I couldn’t put you in more danger.”

“So letting me grieve, watching me suffer – that was better for you?”

“John-”

“No. It’s been over two years, Sherlock. You couldn’t risk just one email?” John asked angrily. “Just one comment on that stupid bloody blog?”

“John, I wanted to. I wanted to contact you so badly, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t until I was finished. Mycroft sent me to all ends of the earth, eradicating Moriarty’s network. I had to- You would have been disgusted with me, John. I couldn’t continue knowing that.”

“Disgusted? What the hell did you do, Sherlock?”

“So many people, John.” Sherlock muttered it so only Julia could hear.

“They were bad people,” Julia assured. “Dying is usually an occupational hazard to them, anyway. They’re _Moriarty’s_ network. Most of them deserved it.”

“You killed them,” John stated emotionlessly. “You killed all of Moriarty’s associates. It only took you two years, and it’s gone. Vanished.”

“They deserved it!” Julia said vehemently.

“I had to do it, John. I would’ve avoided it if I could’ve. Causing a death is not the same as solving one. Any one of them could’ve come to London and killed the three of you. They could’ve tracked me down and killed me as well. I just beat them to it.”

“You murdered hundreds of people.”

“Fifty at most,” Sherlock replied easily. “You were a soldier, John. You killed people.”

“Bad people, Sherlock.”

“And Moriarty was nothing but rainbows and butterflies, right?” Julia blurted. Both men turned to her. It seemed as if they’d forgotten she was there. “It’s super great over there. You get a medal every time you lob someone’s head off and a unicorn sticker just for trying. I’ve got a scrapbook full of them.”

“Right. Why exactly did I let you in my house, again?”

“John, she’s a child.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “He killed Moran. He saved me.”

“I didn’t even know you were there.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“But heroes don’t exist, do they, Sherlock?” John asked, clenching his left hand. “Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, you wouldn’t be one of them.”

“You don’t understand,” Julia said, swallowing. She watched Sherlock sigh, and she chewed her lip.

“Then explain it to me.”

“John, she-”

“I had a date.” She played with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“What?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Julia…”

“‘No’ what?” John demanded, his blue eyes sparking. “No more secrets.”

“ _I_ will not hold any more secrets from you,” Sherlock said firmly. “ _Julia_ doesn’t have to share anything with us. That will always remain true.”

Julia swallowed and stood, ignoring what Sherlock was trying to say.

_You don’t have to do this for me. Please don’t do this for me._

“Moran used to hurt me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his mouth.

“What, didn’t you deduce it?” Julia scoffed. She recognized bitterness in her own voice. “I thought the scars were pretty obvious. You know, the cigarette burns. I mean, they’re not even all from him. He hurt me. He hurt me, he did, but I hurt me too. I couldn’t do it anymore. So, I picked a date.”

“ _Julia_.”

“What? Didn’t you hear me when I told your brother?” she replied, injecting fake casualty into her voice and relaxing her shoulders. “You already knew about the scars; you saw them more than once. I can’t do anything about them now.”

Sherlock swallowed. “When- the date, when was it?”

“The day after next,” she whispered.

She turned to John, who was slouched over with his head in his hands.

“Christ, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” Julia replied, sitting back down.

“And now you’re putting her in foster care, am I correct?”

“Err, no.”

“She’s _staying_ with you?” John asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Yes. You seem surprised.”

“Well, you’re not exactly the parenting type,” John replied nervously. “Is she going to be okay living with you?”

“You were.”

“Yes, but I am a grown adult. I took care of everything in the flat. She’s not picking up after you, is she?”

Julia smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not doing terribly,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

Julia’s phone buzzed, and she smiled as she typed out a reply.

“Who are you even texting?” Sherlock asked. “You don’t know anyone.”

“Molly,” Julia answered easily. “She says if you need any more help from me, she’d be happy to do whatever.”

“I’m sure she would be.”

“Molly Hooper?” John asked. “Who else did you see before me?”

“We went to Scotland Yard yesterday,” Julia answered. “Some woman asked me if Sherlock kidnapped me.”

“Donovan,” Sherlock muttered. “Such a delight to see her again.”

John clenched his jaw. He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone buzzed and cut him off. He read the message quickly and stood. Sherlock and Julia did the same.

“You’ve actually caught me at a bad time,” John said. “I’m supposed to meet Mary for lunch in ten minutes. If you’d, uh, like to join us…”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Sherlock replied. His hands were clenched inside his pockets. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Mrs. Hudson wants us back for lunch, anyway,” Julia put in. Sherlock turned to look at her, and she shrugged. “She’s making me biscuits.”

“Right, then. Goodbye, John. Until next time.”

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice hard, “I’m still royally pissed off. Don’t think this conversation is over.”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock and Julia turned away from the house as John set off down the opposite side of the road. Julia walked behind Sherlock, following him to the main road so they could catch a taxi. Sherlock was tense; his shoulders were hunched and his fists still in his pockets.

“Did I mess everything up?” Julia asked. She received no reply.

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock threw himself on the sofa and didn't move again. A week passed like this. Sherlock barely spoke. He granted Julia one or two word answers when he wasn't stuck inside his own head, but that was all she got.

She made meals for herself and Sherlock, although he didn't eat in front of her. She'd make a plate for herself and put Sherlock's on the table in front of the couch. He wouldn't even glance at it, just hummed in acknowledgement. Julia would tuck her legs under her and sit in the red armchair, trying to make awkward conversation. Sherlock never joined in.

So Julia stopped talking and only made herself a plate. She ate in the kitchen and told Sherlock there was food in the fridge for him if he ever actually got hungry. He had only grunted dismissively in reply. When Julia woke up the next morning, she found a plastic bowl in the sink, empty, and she smiled.


	5. Back Against the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some thinking, and Julia receives a visitor.  
> Title is "Back Against the Wall" by Cage the Elephant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked. Please feel free to correct me if anything is wrong!  
> Please be aware of the tags when you read! I would hate for anyone to be triggered.

_You should’ve noticed it before._

The scars on her forearms.

_You should’ve deduced it._

They weren’t just from Moran.

_You should’ve known._

He tried to kill her, once or twice. She’d tried twice after that.

_You should’ve guessed, at least. A guess would’ve been better than the_ nothing _you had._

She’d set a date. She’d probably ticked off on her fingers the days that passed: _Only two weeks left, now just one, five more days, three more days, two, one,_ gone.

Sherlock rubbed his arms, where his scars used to be. They’d faded years ago, when he was in his twenties, but he could remember where most of them originated. He ran his fingertips up and down the vein, so abused by needles over the years.

Julia had only said that so John would see something good that had come of Sherlock’s death. That had to be it. Sherlock could spend all day and night trying to convince John that he’d done the right thing, but he would get nowhere. John was stubborn and strong-willed. There’s no way he would’ve forgiven him as quickly.

Although, John had never said he’d forgiven Sherlock.

Sherlock emerged from his room wrapped in a dressing gown. He saw Julia in the kitchen and nodded to her before grabbing his violin and starting to play. He noticed the girl curl up in Jo- the armchair, listening to the melody that flowed from his fingertips. She closed her eyes despite the early hour.

“Are you angry with me?” Julia asked. She chewed on her lip.

Sherlock’s violin shrieked as his bow jerked to a stop. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I- I said- about the date… You were supposed to talk to him, anyway; I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I messed everything up.”

“You didn’t.”

“But you weren’t talking to me,” Julia protested. “I thought maybe I’d done something wrong, and I couldn’t think of anything other than that.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then why were you ignoring me?”

“I wasn’t ignoring you. I was simply busy thinking.”

“You were just thinking.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock affirmed. “I’m glad that you understand.”

“But I don’t understand.”

Sherlock sighed. “My mind is a vast library of information. It would be easy to get lost in, had I not created it myself. If I enter my Mind Palace, whole days or hours could pass, and I’d snap back into life, feeling as though only minutes had gone by.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“And I- I haven't done anything to muck up with Mr. Wat-”

“He is a doctor,” Sherlock corrected automatically. “You can just call him John. I'm afraid if anyone's ‘mucked up’ our relationship, it would be me.”

“Do you do that a lot then?” Julia asked, playing with her fingers. “Stop speaking or eating for days on end?”

“Only when I'm thinking.”

“Okay. Um, well, you've been out for a while, and I have been cooking, and...”

“We've run out of something. Milk, most likely, or eggs.”

“Both. And bread.”

“We’ll go to the supermarket.”

“I’ll get dressed, then?”

“That would probably be best,” Sherlock replied, making his way to his room. “I’m bored. I could use a trip out.”

“Okay.”

After a short, silent cab ride, the pair entered the supermarket with a small list of items to purchase. Sherlock went to get teabags, and Julia wandered off to find milk and eggs. As Sherlock was backtracking to retrieve a loaf of bread, he caught sight of her talking to someone he didn’t recognize. His first instinct was to get them away – he’d move them by force if he had to – but he realized quickly that it was a boy Julia’s age, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

“I don’t know anybody else who likes Coldplay,” the boy was saying, gesturing to her hoodie. “I love their album _Viva la Vida_.”

“Oh, me too,” Julia replied. “ _Cemeteries of London_ is one of my favorite songs by them.”

“Same. You know, I-”

“Ah, Julia,” Sherlock interrupted, stalking down the aisle. “There you are. Have you got what you needed?”

“I- yes.”

“Good. We can be on our way, then?”

“Yeah, sure.” She turned to the boy. “Um, bye, then.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he answered, glancing nervously at Sherlock, who gave him a glare in return.

“Probably not,” Sherlock muttered, already walking towards the check-out.

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound too convinced either.

The two left with their spoils and rode back to Baker Street in relative silence. Julia tapped her fingers on her thigh. She probably didn’t think Sherlock would notice, but he did. The cab dropped them off, and Sherlock unlocked the door. Well, he would’ve, if it hadn’t been left open.

“I’m sorry,” Julia mumbled.

“Shh.” Sherlock gently pushed the door open.

“Sorry.”

“Stay here,” Sherlock ordered. He stepped inside and walked silently up the stairs, wishing for John or at least John’s gun. What was he supposed to do if there was an assassin waiting for him in the flat? Talk him out of it? Sherlock could charm grieving parents or weeping lovers with no problem – but a trained, cold-hearted assassin might be asking too much of him.

Assuming the intruder didn’t get to Julia as well, where would she go? He’d made no arrangements for her. Mycroft would probably put her into foster care or with a substitute family that wouldn’t understand what she’d gone through, and she’d be miserable. She could live with John and Mary, and be slightly less miserable, but still, that was far from ideal.

Sherlock prepared himself for the worst – shoulders back, head high, face blank – and opened the door to the flat. Sitting in the red armchair, a cup of tea in his hand, sat one John Watson.

“John,” Sherlock said, his whole body relaxing.

“Don’t mind if we drop by, do you?”

“What’s going on?” Julia asked, standing at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock spun around. “I told you to wait downstairs,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I-I’m sorry, I…”

“Listen to me, next time.”

“I’ll just… I’m just going to go upstairs,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to. We should put the food away.”

“Okay,” she replied, nodding.

Sherlock stepped into the room and went to hang up his coat. As he turned to do so, he saw a woman sitting cross-legged on the sofa. She also held a cup of tea in her dainty hands. Her hair was light blonde and fell gracefully to her shoulders and nearly over one eye. The woman had eyes that were clear and blue, but not at all cold like they should’ve been. Her nose was thin but upturned at the end. Even sitting, Sherlock could tell she was shorter than he was, so short that John would have to lean over to kiss her. The image turned Sherlock’s veins to ice.

“You must be Mary,” he said.

“Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, not for most people,” Sherlock muttered.

Julia saw the woman and tensed. Her face went white.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, glancing at her. “You’re not going to vomit, are you?”

“I’m… fine… Just a bit of a stomachache. Excuse me.”

She ran off to the bathroom, dropping the bags on the floor. Sherlock was grateful he was carrying the eggs. He picked up Julia’s bags and brought them into the kitchen, where he quickly shoved everything in the fridge. He hadn’t had time to stop by the morgue, so there was plenty of room and not much need to be careful about severed heads or sawn-off fingers.

Sherlock sat in his chair and waited. Julia still hadn’t reappeared. He glanced nervously at the bathroom door. He should try to help. A glass of water. Painkillers, maybe. Just asking her if she’s all right. John did that for him when he’d gotten a stomach virus around four years ago, so it must be the best thing to do.

“I’ll check on her,” Mary offered.

_Size 10, 5’3, cunning, perfectionist, allergic to dogs, only child, her parents are dead, runs a flower shop on the other side of town – explains the flowers in the front yard and on her dress – previously married, one to two children, one or both being a miscarriage, trying for another_ -

Sherlock’s mind froze, but he found himself saying, “Yes, thank you, Mary.”

He watched as the woman knocked tentatively on the door and disappeared inside.

“How is she doing?” John asked, sipping his tea.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “Apparently I was ‘out of it’ for a week. It didn’t seem that long to me, but that’s how it always is, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know how she is,” John repeated. “Because you had a week-long sulk. Over what, exactly?”

“What do you think, John? You are a reasonably intelligent man. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Who fed her?”

“She made all of her own meals. And saved leftovers for me. She’s quite the cook; her skills are improving. That’s why we went shopping this morning.”

“You had her cook for you.”

“No, she cooked for herself and put the extra food in the refrigerator. There’s quite a difference.”

John sighed and shook his head. “Are you sure she’s all right living here?”

“Would you rather I put her in a home with dozens of other kids who would probably terrorize her for being different?”

“No. No, of course not. Sherlock, I’m not saying it was a bad idea to bring her here, but I’m saying it wasn’t good. It was a bit stupid, to say the least.”

“We’ll manage.”

“You have two mouths to feed now, not just yours,” John said. “You actually need cases for income, not only the rush.”

_Oh, but John, it isn’t the rush during the case I crave,_ Sherlock thought. _It’s the peace that comes after._

“I am aware.”

“You need to get her schooling. She’s missed five or six years of teaching – you’ll either have to put her back in Year Six, or get her a private tutor.”

_“I am aware.”_

“She has to have friends her age.”

“She doesn’t _have_ to do anything.”

“Sherlock-”

“John.”

“Let me speak, Sherlock. She needs schooling, and friends, and a normal life. She can’t go running around with you to crime scenes or the morgue. She can’t cook for you and herself while you’re dead to the world. She shouldn’t have to live with that. _You_ have to take care of _her_. Children need- they deserve support and love and safety.”

“You think I am not capable of providing these things.”

“Sherlock, answer me honestly. Did you even think before deciding to adopt her?”

“I didn’t adopt her. She is just… here. Mycroft took care of the legal matters,” Sherlock replied. “And yes, I did think. I think before doing anything; I think while I’m not doing anything. I think, and I think, and I think. John, you should know that well enough by now.”

“Then why didn’t you put her in a foster home?”

“They wouldn’t understand, John. She’d be just another hopeless kid making the rounds. It was unacceptable. No one would care.”

“And _you_ do. You genuinely care about this girl.”

“I- Julia and I will manage.”

“Sherlock, your life is constantly in danger. What are you going to do with her if you die? For _real_ , this time.”

“Well, Mycroft and Lestrade could probably take custody without too many questions. The two of them are familiar to her, and Lestrade already has kids, I believe. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would be glad to care for her, as well. She could always use an extra pair of hands ‘round her flat.”

“She needs rules. _You_ can barely live by them. How the hell are you even enforcing them?”

“We have rules,” Julia said, walking into the sitting room. She didn't look any better. If anything, she looked worse. “I'm not allowed to have boys in my room. Or drugs.”

“Drugs,” John repeated. “Bit rich coming from you, isn't it?”

Sherlock made a face. “It's a valid restriction.”

“Wait, you were a junkie?” Julia asked. “When did you stop?”

“Years ago. I prefer not to talk about it.”

“He didn't tell you?” John asked.

“Why would he?” Julia replied. “It's hardly relevant. It's like I can or would leave just because he had a problem. We all make bad decisions.” She glanced at Mary, who had resumed her seat at the opposite end of the couch.

“She's a smart one,” Mary mused, and she smiled.

~*~

When Julia was seven years old, she’d wanted to be a pirate, but her mother had shut that idea down pretty quickly.

“Pirates aren’t real,” her mother had told her. “They’re just in stories. Do something practical with your life. Stop living in those books of yours.”

Julia’s father waited until his wife had left the room before turning to her and saying, “Julia, love, find what you’re good at and keep doing it. You can do whatever makes you happy. Mummy just wants what’s best for you, you know.”

“I know, Dad.”

On Julia’s eighth birthday, she asked for three fiction books. That was all she’d wanted. Her mother and father instead presented her with a biology textbook and underwear. Her mother had said that careers in life science were growing more and more diverse. Julia could become a dermatologist, or an oncologist, or even a pediatrician.

Julia didn’t work well people, though, especially children younger than herself. She’d babysat one of her mother’s friend’s kids once, and the child had hated her. He opened a tube of yogurt and squirted it all over her hair. When she’d gotten home, her mother had yelled at her for being irresponsible and not taking her job seriously.

The next time her mother left on one of her frequent business trips, her father had given Julia the books she’d asked for. He’d hidden them from his wife until he’d had a chance to give it to her. She had to read them quickly, before _she_ came back.

Julia was a straight-A student before her father killed himself.

Julia was the one who found him, blood leaking from his head and one of her mother’s guns in his hands. They’d had to replace the carpet in the living room after that. Julia couldn’t step foot in there without being reminded of his smile, of his kind words. People normally left notes before doing something like that – someone had told Julia that once, she definitely remembered – but there weren’t any. Julia thought maybe she’d get _something_ – a post-it note on her door, an envelope with a few words on it, a book hidden under her pillow.

There was nothing.

“Your father was weak, Julia. That’s why he killed himself. He couldn’t handle the information given to him. Your father was weak, and a coward.”

After that, her grades started slipping, and she wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – talk to anyone. Her mother screamed at her nearly every day, demanding higher scores and enforcing rigorous studying techniques. Eventually, her mother got tired of screaming and resorted to threatening her with chores or confinement or – once – physical punishment.

_She’d_ gotten a business call soon after she’d given up, and she’d told Julia to pack a duffel bag for a few days. _She_ made another call, said something in a foreign language, and threw herself and Julia into the first cab that would stop for them.

They met with Moran that day, and her mother handed over Julia’s bags to him.

“I’ll be back soon,” _she_ said. _She_ lied. _She_ left, and Julia hadn’t seen her again unless it was in her nightmares.

At first, it was her mother’s corpse knocking on her door, trying to get her attention. Julia always opened the door. She was always greeted with a view of _her_ , maggots squirming in the sockets of her eyes and her hair falling out.

Soon it changed, and no longer was her mother dead or rotting. She was watching Julia suffer, leaving her in the hands of Moran. She was waiting until that one changed into Moran’s dead body, or maybe Sherlock’s. That’d be great fun. At least her mother wouldn’t haunt her anymore.

But _she_ was there when Sherlock opened the door. She was there, breathing, smirking, and sipping tea out of one of Sherlock’s teacups. She was supposed to be dead. Sherlock was supposed to have killed her. She _could not be there_.

Julia bolted to the bathroom after making a few hurried excuses. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She slid down the tile, resting with her knees up to her chin. Julia wrapped her arms around herself. She put her head in her lap.

Why was she here? Was Sherlock working for her? Oh, God. Oh, God, he was, and she’d just wanted Julia back. She’d sent Sherlock to murder Moran and bring Julia back to hell. It made a sick kind of sense – that her mother would grow bored of not having someone around to pick on. But Julia would rather die than live with her mother again.

There was a knock on the door.

_Oh, God, it’s Sherlock, he’s going to give me to her; he’s going to exchange me for a check. He was just working for her, oh, God. I’m so stupid, so, so stupid, you’re so stupid for believing something good could happen to you. And look where you are now, back with her, back in her clutches, you should’ve run when you saw him, you should’ve run while you had the chance, because now the chance is gone and you have nothing and no one to help you._

“Julia?” she asked. “Hello, love, it’s Mary. Is everything all right in there?”

Julia whimpered and bit her lip to hide the noise.

“Julia, I’m coming in.”

_No, no, no, no…_

_She_ stepped into the bathroom. Julia blinked. She had to be imagining things. It had happened before, at the hotel. That wasn’t her mother; it couldn’t be. Her mother was dead. Sherlock had killed her. He told Julia himself. Her mother was dead.

“You don’t look well at all, love.”

But it was her. It was. It had to be; the woman kneeling in front of her looked and talked just like her mother. She smiled and rested her hand on Julia’s forehead. She sat there, paralyzed. Julia could feel her heart rate rise with every second that went by.

“You don’t have a temperature. Are you feeling okay?”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Julia whispered, her throat dry. “Sherlock killed you. He killed all of you.”

The almost tender expression on the woman’s face fell away. Her blue eyes turned cold, and her mouth was set in a line.

“I suppose you’re going to run screaming out of here. At least, you want to. You want to get Sherlock and tell him – what? That his only friend’s wife is a serial killer?”

“Your words, not mine,” Julia murmured.

“Don’t use that attitude with me,” she said, her voice hard. “Anyway, I’m sure Sherlock will believe you. He’ll tell John, and John will believe you, too, and then they’ll both form an elaborate plan to bring me down that involves far too many variables and a less than pleasant ending for all of us. I’m sure that’s what you want.”

Julia swallowed. “Sherlock doesn’t work for you.”

“Why would he? I can do anything he can. He’d probably slow me down, to be honest.” Mary paused and chuckled. “Oh, did you think I’d hired him to bring you back to me? How cute. Julia, I don’t want you. I left you with Moran for a reason. He wasn’t any safer than I was.”

It was hard to talk. Julia couldn’t get the words out.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Julia. You’re not going to say anything about this. You’re not going to say anything about me. Because if you do-”

“You’ll kill me,” Julia said miserably.

“No,” Mary replied. “No, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? You’re suicidal half the time anyway; if you’re in the right mood, you could tell someone just so you could have an excuse. No, if you say anything to anyone, I’ll kill _them_. And Sherlock, too, just to make sure you really don’t want to chat with anyone.”

She straightened herself and turned towards the door.

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ ,” Julia choked out. “Sherlock killed you. He told me he killed all of you; he _promised_.”

“He missed one.”

“He’ll find out on his own, you know. You’ll slip up. You’ll make a mistake. He’ll find out on his own, and he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. He will.”

“Oh, Julia, love,” Mary cooed, smiling. “This is just sad. Absolutely pathetic. You care about him. And you think he cares about you.”

“He does.”

“No. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care about anyone. He’s cold, and calculating, and he murdered _all those people…_ Sherlock’s a bit like me, actually.”

“He’s _nothing_ like you.”

“Really? You sound so sure. Just wait. You’ll see. Sherlock Holmes is unfeeling. He has no heart. He doesn’t care about you,” Mary said. “And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll realize that _no one_ does. Who could? A girl like you – scarred, depressed, riddled with anxiety. Who wants to play with a broken toy?”

“I’m not broken,” Julia protested weakly, digging her nails into her jeans.

“Oh, love. You can tell yourself that. But that doesn’t make it true.”

Julia swallowed and tried to hold back tears. Because she was right. Mary was right. Julia wasn’t whole. She was crushed, broken beyond repair. People could settle for a-little-banged-up or missing-a-few-parts. No one would settle for broken.

“Julia. Believe me when I say I won’t hesitate.”

Julia wiped her eyes on her sleeve and stood, her knees wobbling. She stood and, taking a deep breath, left the bathroom.

She heard them talking about her before she got to the sitting room, so she answered one of John’s questions and asked a few of her own. Julia sat on the couch, curled into herself to take up less room. Sherlock and John were talking for a while, and Mary joined in sometimes, but Julia kept quiet after that.

“You don’t look well,” Sherlock said after she’d failed to respond for the third time.

“My stomach hurts,” she said, clutching her knees to her chest. “I think maybe it was the pasta I made last night. It didn’t agree with me.”

Sherlock hummed and went back to the topic at hand. It might’ve been Julia, it might’ve been about Moriarty’s network, it was probably about Sherlock’s fake suicide – which, honestly, Julia should’ve been paying attention to. She wanted to know what happened; she’d only gotten bits and pieces from phone conversations. But she doubted Sherlock would want to relive the story.

Whatever they were talking about, Julia didn’t listen at all. She simply watched John and Sherlock and thought about how much happier they both would be without her intruding on their lives. She felt extremely out of place there, in a flat she couldn’t yet call home, with a man she couldn’t yet call family. She briefly wondered if she ever could.

There was a lull in the conversation, and Julia used it to make her excuses.

“I… you know, I don’t really… feel well. I’m just going to, uh, I’m going upstairs. If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, waving his hand. “I’ll call you when it’s time for – what’s next? – dinner, I believe.”

“Yes, dinner, thanks. Thank you. Think I’ll take a nap.”

Julia sat on her bed and stared at the blank white wall. She cried – not the chest-heaving, heart-wrenching wails of a child punished, but silently, tears dripping down her face like water from a faucet. They were tears of anger at herself for being so weak. Of fear that her mother would strike unprovoked. Of hopelessness. Emptiness.

She put her earbuds in and let the music take her away.


	6. Sail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some research, and Julia visits the Yard.  
> Title is "Sail" by Awolnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind the tags when you're reading! Feel free to correct me if anything doesn't seem right.

Sherlock heard Julia clamber out of bed and make her way to the bathroom upstairs. She turned the shower on. Sherlock shrugged and looked back into his microscope, trying to forget the way Mary had taken John’s hand as they walked out the door, how she’d made herself a place in his flat so easily, as if she were meant to be there and knew it.

John was coming around to Sherlock being back, though, and that almost made up for Mary. Sherlock hated her the moment he saw her. She was small, and soft, and everything Sherlock wasn’t. She wore floral perfume and pink lipstick and a diamond that was positively brilliant. She was smart, though, smarter than ordinary people. She could hold an intelligent conversation. She had John.

Sherlock hated her.

He looked up from his microscope around seven o’clock. The shower was still running.

Sherlock carefully stood and wiped off his slide. He made his way upstairs, listening for any signs of movement. Julia’s room was empty. He knocked on the door of the bathroom.

“Julia, are you in there?”

Silence answered him.

“Julia, I’m- I’m going to come in if you don’t say something.”

“Leave me alone,” came a muffled reply.

“Are you all right?”

“Just go away.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you to come in.”

“Then come out.”

“No.”

“I’m coming in now. Make sure you’re decent.”

“Of course I’m decent – but don’t come in here!”

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. Julia was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shower, the water hitting her back. She was still dressed, and her clothes clung to her body. Her head was in her hands, and Sherlock could tell she had been crying. He knelt next to her, leaning on the glass.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been in here for at least three hours.”

“Three and a half,” Julia replied quietly. “The water was hot at first.”

Sherlock opened the shower door and put his hand on Julia’s shoulder. She shrunk away from him, but he didn’t move. The water was ice-cold.

“Come out of there,” he said. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s not that bad,” Julia protested. She looked up. Her lips were white, and her teeth were chattering audibly. “I’m fine.”

“Listen to me.”

“No. I want to be alone.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied. “When you’re an adult, you can do whatever you want. Now, however, you are not. Get out of the shower.”

“No.”

“ _Julia_.” Sherlock reached into the shower and closed his arms around Julia’s shoulders. It was easy to pull her out because she was so thin for her age.

“No, no, I’m sorry, don’t- please-” She scratched at his hands with her nails and started to cry harder.

“Stop struggling,” Sherlock reprimanded.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, please-”

Sherlock let go of her and backed away. Julia scrambled backward until she hit the door. Tears dripped down her face. Her eyes were wide, and she was breathing hard.

_Don’t hurt me, please._

“No,” Sherlock said, swallowing. He kept his face carefully blank. “I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t ever hurt you.”

Julia didn’t reply. Sherlock got up and turned off the water. He shooed Julia out of the way, leaving the room in search of dry clothing and towels. He went into Julia’s bedroom and rooted through her drawers. Socks, underwear, pajamas. Sherlock paused by the door.

He’d known the room was bare, but standing there with a pair of yellow pajamas in his hands, he couldn’t help but think how wrong it was. John wasn’t coming back. As much as that thought made Sherlock hurt, it was true. This was Julia’s room, now. It should at least look like it.

Julia was sitting on the toilet seat when Sherlock entered the bathroom. He put the clothes on the counter. “Come downstairs when you’ve changed. How do you like your tea?”

“I don’t know.”

“All right.” Sherlock grabbed a towel from the linen closet in the hall and tossed it to Julia. “Dry off.”

Sherlock walked back downstairs and into the kitchen. Julia appeared ten minutes later in the pajamas he had given her. The bottoms were black and yellow striped, and the shirt had a cartoon bee on it. Sherlock smirked. The kettle whistled.

“You don’t have to tell me why,” Sherlock stated. “But it would help me understand.”

“Why do you care?”

“Your fingers are nearly blue.”

“I’m fine.”

“Try this,” Sherlock ordered, pushing a cup of tea towards Julia. “You can add more sugar if it’s not sweet enough.”

Julia took a sip and nodded, filling a teaspoon with sugar and stirring it in. “It helps me focus.”

“What?”

“I can forget.”

“About Moran and your mother?”

“About everything.”

Sherlock nodded. “At least it can’t kill you.”

Julia tilted her head in question but did not say anything.

“Right. Suppose you’ll want to put me in therapy now? Have a doctor take a look at me, make sure I’m not deranged?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “Just ask you not to raise the water bill any more than necessary. Mrs. Hudson already gives us a discount because you’re only fifteen. I doubt she’d let many more three and a half hour showers slip by.”

Julia nodded.

“She’s not coming back,” Sherlock said.

The girl laughed.

“She’s not.”

“No, she’s already here.” Julia tapped her temple. “She’s always there.”

Sherlock frowned but nodded. He moved into the sitting room and opened his laptop. Julia followed, sitting cross-legged in the red armchair, her tea cradled in her hands.

“Why don’t you get a blanket?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Do you want to watch some telly?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock opened the search bar and started typing. He needed advice, as much as it pained him to admit it. He opened five or six tabs and began reading carefully, looking for anything that matched.

_Dealing with victims of child abuse_

_Anxiety in teenagers_

_Signs of depression in teenagers_

“Are you researching an experiment?” Julia asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied easily. “But it’s research nonetheless.”

They sat in relative silence. The only sound came from Sherlock tapping his keys. He read three different pages on effects of child abuse before Julia’s stomach growled.

“You haven’t eaten today,” Sherlock realized. “What would you like for dinner?”

“Grilled cheese,” Julia replied.

“That’s… it?”

“Yeah. I can make it; you don’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, closing his laptop. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks. And after, I think I’m going to bed. To actually sleep this time.”

“All right.”

Sherlock reappeared in the sitting room, holding a bright yellow square between his fingertips. A look of disgust was cemented on his face.

“Did you put this in the basket when I wasn’t looking?”

“I didn’t know if we had enough cheese in the flat,” Julia replied.

“This cannot be cheese. This is not the natural color or texture of cheese. It _shines_.”

“Then use different cheese.”

“We don’t have different cheese.”

“Guess we’ll have to go back to the supermarket soon, then.”

After the two of them ate, Julia went upstairs to sleep. Sherlock stayed up reading for another few hours, and finally climbed into bed after midnight. He woke later than usual, at around four in the morning. He stayed in bed until the room filled with natural light, and then he rolled over and stayed there until he heard Julia walk down the stairs.

Sherlock rolled out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. He quickly fixed breakfast for himself and Julia. He was just biting into a piece of toast when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and smiled.

“Why are you so happy?” Julia asked, licking strawberry jam off her fingers.

“It’s Lestrade. He has a case. Locked room, no fingerprints or motives. No DNA found at the scene. Fascinating, I- I can’t leave you here alone.”

“Sure you can,” Julia replied. “Or, I could always just come with you.”

“Of course. Go get dressed.”

They took a cab to the address Lestrade had supplied. Police tape enclosed the front yard of the house, and people milled about seemingly without purpose. They really didn’t have one if Sherlock was there, he thought as he lifted the tape for Julia to walk under.

Donovan and Anderson were standing off to the side, complaining to each other that the ‘freak’ was intruding once again. Sherlock fired off some deductions – Donovan had one too many shots last night, and Anderson has a third girlfriend – and they quickly shut up. As soon as his back was turned, they started gossiping again.

“What a freak,” Donovan muttered. “I bet the only reason he solves these things is because he plants evidence to support himself.”

“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Anderson replied, his face stull red from embarrassment. “He’s got the nerve to come down here and start spreading lies…”

“You’re just jealous that you can’t do something special like he can,” Julia said quietly. “Maybe if you stop wasting your time criticizing him, you’d have enough time to be able to find out if you _can_ do something, as unlikely as it seems to be.”

Sherlock smirked. “Come, Julia.”

Julia stayed close to Sherlock. He hadn’t thought of how so many people in one place might affect her, but he bet she could manage if she didn’t wander off.

“Are you sure I can be here?”

“You _can_ , but you’re not supposed to.”

He was almost unaware of Donovan and Anderson trailing them into the house. Lestrade met them in the sitting room, but seemed to ignore Julia completely. It may have had something to do with Julia standing behind Sherlock as if she was hiding, but Sherlock didn’t read into it. He had a case. A case! The first one since…

Since he came back?

Since before he left?

Either way, that’s what it was. Lestrade led Sherlock and Julia upstairs and into the bathroom, where a young woman lay unmoving on the tile. Her hair was dark red and fanned around her head like a halo. Her eyes were open, brown, and bloodshot. She was dressed in a black slip of cloth that Sherlock supposed could be an excuse for a nightgown if one were a desperate college girl. The woman wore a promise ring on her right hand, dark red nail polish that matched her smudged lipstick, and a ring of bruises around her neck.

Sherlock sniffed. The perfume in the air didn’t match the one of the bottle on the counter. He was about to say so when he heard Anderson call out for Lestrade. Sherlock turned and realized that Julia was not with him.

“Looks like the Freak’s been busy!”

Sherlock bolted down the stairs. The sight he was confronted with made his blood white hot with fury. He had never hated anyone as much as he hated Anderson in that moment, not Mycroft, not Moriarty, not even Mary.

Before he knew it, Lestrade was prying him off Anderson and attempting to talk him out of homicide.

~*~

“He can't bring a child to a crime scene,” Anderson said, half-turned towards Sally.

“The Freak makes a great parent,” Sally said, laughing.

Sherlock ignored them and kept walking, following Lestrade upstairs. Julia hesitated, her arm on the banister.

Sally abruptly stopped her cackling. “What's that?”

Julia saw where her gaze was directed and hastily pulled down her sleeves. “Nothing.”

Sally grabbed her shoulder and spun her around so Julia was facing her. Julia flinched, but she didn't jerk away. She doubted Sally would hurt her.

“Let me see your arms,” she said softly. She was trying to be soothing, Julia realized. She thought she was helping. Oh, God, did she think-

Anderson forcibly moved Sally out of his way and snatched Julia's arm. She whimpered and tried to tug her arm away, but the man's grip was firm. He rolled up Julia's sleeve, exposing her polka-dotted arm.

“Christ, has the Freak been doing this to you?” Sally whispered.

“Of course it was him,” Anderson replied for her. “How many other psychopathic smokers do we know?”

“No,” Julia whined, trying and failing to pull away. “Let me go, please.”

“Lestrade!” Anderson yelled, his attention still fixed on Julia. “The Freak's been busy!”

“No, please. It's fine-”

“That's what he's telling you, isn't it?” Sally prodded. “You deserve it, right?”

_Yes,_ Julia thought, _but not Sherlock. Moran. Never Sherlock._

“No, it's really fine,” she repeated. She could feel tears sting the back of her eyes, and she hated it. She hated crying in front of people. She'd rather do it in the shower, where the noise of the water could drown out her sobs.

“What the bloody hell-”

“Detective Inspector-”

Anderson was ripped away from her and slammed into the wall, knocking down a black and white picture of two little boys in swim trunks. His toes barely touched the ground. Julia would've laughed if her heart hadn't been about to burst out of her chest. Sherlock had his hands fisted in Anderson's body suit, and his expression was hard and full of rage.

“If you ever,” Sherlock hissed, “lay a finger on her again, I swear on my life that I will break every last bone in both of your miserable hands. Do you understand me?”

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Lestrade yelled, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. “Sherlock, put him down.”

“Do you understand me?” Sherlock only tightened his grip on Anderson’s clothes.

“Loud and clear,” the man stammered, swallowing hard.

Sherlock dropped him and turned to Julia. Sally was struggling to explain to Lestrade why Sherlock should be _really_ arrested this time. He didn’t seem very impressed. Sherlock reached out to touch Julia’s shoulder, but changed his mind and put his hands in his pockets instead.

“What were they doing to you?” he asked coldly.

“My sleeves were rolled up,” Julia explained softly, blinking away tears. Sherlock had to bend down to hear her. “They saw my scars. I told them it was nothing, but- but he grabbed my arm, and… They- they think it was you. I tried to tell them, but they- I couldn’t- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock said. “And don’t get so worked up.”

“They’re- they’re not going to take me away, are they?”

“No. I wouldn’t let that happen. Now, calm down. Can you do that?”

Julia nodded and breathed out through her nose.

“Good.”

Lestrade finally got Sally and Anderson to stop talking and turned to Julia. She was chewing her lip and frowning.

“What was going on down here?” he asked. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Julia said, swallowing. “It’s all fine.”

“He grabbed you,” Sherlock protested. “I didn’t hallucinate that, did I?”

“No,” Julia whispered. “I’m fine, though, it’s okay.”

“It is definitely not okay,” Lestrade opposed. “Tell me what happened.”

Julia’s throat was dry. She glanced nervously at Sherlock, who gave a small nod. She cleared her throat and sniffed.

“You two went upstairs, and I- I have scars on my arms. They saw them and wanted to see them again, but I didn’t want them to see in the first place. So I pulled my sleeves down and- and he… I…”

Sherlock held out his arms, palms down. “Show me.”

Julia gently wrapped her hand around his wrist and pushed his sleeve up to his elbow. Sherlock clenched the fist at his side.

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

“That’s not the point,” Lestrade said. “Anderson, you’re suspended. Two weeks without pay. Get out of here, and consider yourself very lucky.”

“Sally didn’t do anything,” Julia said. “She just wanted to know if I was okay. She didn’t do anything, though.”

Sherlock nodded but leveled a glare at Sally anyway, which sent her scurrying off to find work somewhere else. Julia swallowed and smiled weakly at the two men standing in front of her.

“She can’t exactly be here,” Lestrade said.

“I know,” Sherlock replied.

Neither one said anything for a moment. Julia cleared her throat. They simply looked at her. Lestrade tapped his temple and nodded to himself.

“We can bring her back to the Yard,” he said. “You can pick her up when we’re done here. Shouldn’t take that long, should it?”

“Judging by those bruises on her neck, it won’t take long at all,” Sherlock said. “Are you okay with that, Julia?”

“Yeah,” she replied reluctantly.

“All right,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get going.”

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock said. “We’ll be right behind.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“We should get our story straight,” Sherlock said as soon as the door closed behind them. He paused to give the cabbie the address. “How you came to live with me.”

“Why?”

“Lestrade will need to explain why he suspended Anderson. With those scars, there could potentially be a child abuse inquiry. As I plan to keep you relatively safe from harm, and I have not and do not intend to hurt you, it’d be best to avoid such a situation.”

“I already know my cover story,” Julia mumbled, ignoring Sherlock’s previous statement. “My mother died from lung cancer when I was nine. My father, struck with grief, killed himself when I was ten. I was placed into my Uncle Sebastian’s care. He was abusive and always angry. Whatever. That’s where the scars came from. He was in a car accident a few months ago. His neck snapped; he died instantly. He was your cousin. You didn’t speak much, but there was no one else. Mycroft thought dumping me on you would be a good punishment for the whole dying thing. I don’t know, teach you some kind of responsibility. Anyway, _he_ definitely wasn’t going to keep me around. As for the family resemblance, I’m a spitting-image of my dear, late mother, who married into the family.”

“Impressive,” Sherlock mused.

“Really?”

“Yes. You didn’t leave out any important details. It’s quite believable.”

“I’ve had time to consider it.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and looked out the window.

“Um,” Julia mumbled, “are you just going to drop me off and head back to the crime scene? I mean, that’s okay, if you are. I just… was wondering.”

“I expect Lestrade will have some questions for the both of us. After he is finished, I was planning on getting back to the case. Lestrade was right. Crime scenes are no place for children. If you feel more comfortable, you can stay at the Yard until I am finished at the scene. It shouldn’t be long.”

Julia nodded as the cab rolled to a stop in front of Scotland Yard. After a brief interrogation from Lestrade – Where did you get those scars and why and who gave them to you in the first place? Are you happy living with Sherlock or do you want to live with someone else? – Julia was ushered into the Yard’s lounge. It was a small room with an old loveseat and two round tables with five chairs each. There was a small fridge, coffee machine, and microwave on a counter on one side of the room.

When it was Sherlock’s turn to be questioned, he told Julia he’d be back soon and left with a swish of his coat. Julia sat in one corner of the sofa and drew her legs up to her chest. She put her earbuds in her ears and turned on the music Sherlock had helped her download. She closed her eyes and breathed, tracing the scars on her arms with her fingertips. Line, line, dot, dot, dot, line. In a weird way, it calmed her.

She pilfered a bottle of orange juice from the mini-fridge with the name Donovan scrawled across the cap. Julia felt oddly liberated. After drinking twelve ounces of juice, she got up to use the bathroom. As she was walking back into the lounge, she felt herself collide with a solid force and a burn spread on her chest and stomach. The boy’s hair was light brown and hung almost over his eyes. He needed a haircut. His eyes themselves were hazel. He was tall and lanky, and moved like he was unsure of where to put all of his limbs.

“Bloody hell,” the boy said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh,” Julia gasped. There was coffee all over her Seether shirt. “Yeah. Crap.”

“Here,” the boy said, taking off his hoodie, “you can wear this. If you want. It’ll probably be too big for you, but it’s not covered in really terrible hot coffee.”

“Thanks,” Julia mumbled, taking the hoodie awkwardly. “I’ll… um…”

“Yeah.”

Julia scurried to the bathroom and quickly changed into the mystery teen’s hoodie. It smelled like an odd combination of too much cologne and oranges.  She wrung out her shirt in the sink and went back to the lounge room to find the boy sitting in her spot on the couch.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” the boy said, standing. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah,” Julia replied. “It’s fine. It’s not ruined. Thankfully.”

The teen smiled. “I’m Will Lestrade. My dad’s the detective inspector.”

“I’m Julia, um, Holmes, I guess.”

“Holmes? Like, Sherlock Holmes?” Will asked. “He’s not your dad, is he?”

“Er, no, my uncle, actually.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but he doesn’t really seem like the loving type.”

“No, no,” Julia said, waving her hand dismissively. “Everyone’s always telling me how horrible he is. He’s not, really. You know, he’s actually quite nice-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Will interrupted. “I think what he does it amazing. It’s brilliant, yeah, and he helps my dad out a lot. It’s just… he doesn’t seem like he’d be the most enthusiastic father.”

“Well, he’s not my father. So, there you go.”

“We’re going back to the crime scene,” Sherlock said, standing in the doorway. He moved inside so Lestrade could talk to his son.

“Will,” he said, “keep an eye on your sister.”

“She’s in your office. She’s fine, still texting her friends.”

“Yeah, but keep an eye on her.”

Will rolled his eyes.

“My kids are staying with me for the weekend,” Lestrade explained, although Julia doubted anyone in the room actually cared. “Their mother’s on a business trip.”

“Business trip,” Will scoffed. “She’s doing lots of business. If by ‘business’ you mean Pete.” He saw the look on his father’s face. “Sorry.”

“Lestrade. Let’s go,” Sherlock demanded. He turned and stalked out of the room without saying goodbye.


	7. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals with some new thoughts, and Julia finally has Christmas.  
> Title is "Yellow" by Coldplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to keep the tags in mind while you're reading! I don't want anyone to be triggered.  
> Not beta'd or britpicked.  
> Feel free to correct me if anything seems wrong or inconsistent.

Sherlock prided himself on having complete control of his emotions. On not needing the approval of others. He didn’t care about what others thought of him. He didn’t care about their opinions, only the facts. He didn’t care, period. Feelings were useless, hateful things, chemical defects in the brains of the ordinary. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the cases that were interesting enough to fight off his boredom. Sherlock didn’t have feelings, and on the rare occasion he did, he never showed them.

So why – _why?_ – did Sherlock hurt so much when Julia said he wasn’t her father? It was a fact, nothing more. Sherlock lived for facts. He knew he wasn’t her actual father, and he knew he never could be. It was impossible. Sherlock couldn’t even be a proper substitute. Julia cooked half the meals eaten in the flat, and she entertained herself in her room most of the time. Sherlock routinely forgot she was actually in the flat until she made herself known.

“Sherlock.”

He helped with her nightmares, though. That had to count for something. And he would never let any harm come to her again. He would rather die.

That thought froze him. When had he become so attached?

“Sherlock.”

It simply wouldn’t do. Sherlock Holmes did not become attached.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled.

“What? Yes, the case. Wonderful. It was either her brother or his fiancée. The brother would have enough strength to choke her with his bare hands, though. The fiancée would need the rope that was used. Ah, yes. You should arrest the victim’s brother’s fiancée. She’s your murderer.”

“I’ll need a bit more evidence than that,” Lestrade said.

“Oh, yes, well, the victim and the fiancée of her brother were having an affair. The victim was going to tell her brother, but the fiancée didn’t want that. She’d be cut off from the money she was going to get by marrying into the family,” Sherlock explained. “If the brother had found out about it already, he wouldn’t have killed his sister. That was an act to keep her quiet. Therefore, it was the fiancée.”

“All right,” Lestrade replied. “We’ll question her again. Thanks, Sherlock. You can get going. Remember to pick up Julia, okay?” He laughed.

Sherlock did not laugh. He’d taken forty minutes to solve a case that should’ve taken him less than half that time. He’d been occupied, thinking of Julia.

No, this wouldn’t do at all.

He took a cab back to the Yard and texted Julia.

_(2:49pm) Solved the case. On my way back to the Yard. – SH_

_(2:52pm) Okay, I’ll be ready to go when you get here._

Sherlock walked into the break room to find a young teenage girl lounging on the couch, texting. Lestrade’s daughter, most likely. Julia was listening to Lestrade’s son talk, only adding bits and pieces of information here and there. Julia saw him and smiled. Sherlock kept his face blank. He could see confusion in Julia’s eyes. How could she possibly know?

Julia asked the teenage boy if he wanted his sweater back. He replied that her shirt was still covered in coffee, and it would be best if she just take it. She could return it to him later if she really wanted to. Julia smiled and kept smiling until they were seated in the cab.

“His mobile number is in the pocket,” Sherlock said. “He’s hoping you’ll call, or at least text. He wants to ask you on a date. The answer is no.”

“What?” Julia asked. “How do you know that? You can’t possibly.”

Sherlock sighed. “He loves that hoodie. It’s old and so worn in places the color is fading. He can buy a new one but chooses not to. Why would he give it to you unless he thought you were important enough to risk his favorite sweater?” Sherlock tapped his fingers on his thigh. “As for wanting you to call, he was fidgeting around you. He is approximately sixteen years old. I assume you’re reasonably attractive to boys his age.”

“Why is the answer no?”

“You are much too young to be dating,” Sherlock said.

“I am not.”

“Are you saying you’ll agree to it if he asks you?”

“No, I’m just saying that I’m not too young.”

“I’m saying you are.”

“Didn’t take you as the overprotective sort,” Julia muttered, but Sherlock knew she meant for him to hear it.

“Didn’t take you as the desperate girlfriend sort.”

“Because I’m not. I’m sure you would’ve _deduced_ it.”

Sherlock sighed and stared out his window. The two of them were silent. Snowflakes fell softly onto the road, only to be swept up on the wheels of cars and buses. Sherlock marveled at how the seasons seemed to creep up on even his extraordinary mind. Wasn’t it just October yesterday?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“All right,” Sherlock replied. “I think we should paint your room.”

“That’s rather permanent, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes.”

“What about John?”

“John is married.”

“For how long?” Julia questioned. “What if Mary isn’t who she says she is?”

“Julia, are you sure you’re fine?”

Julia sighed. “Yes,” she said weakly. “Yes, I’m fine. Um, how do you feel about blue? For… my bedroom.”

“It’s your decision, but if you must have my approval, I suppose blue is acceptable.”

“Purple?”

“Fine with me.”

“Green?”

“That would be a good choice, but you hate green.”

“You can’t _possibly_ know that,” Julia said, smiling.

“Your nose wrinkled when you said it. You think it’s unpleasant.”

“It’s either too bright or too dark,” she explained, “and there’s no in between that’s tolerable.”

Sherlock made a noise that could’ve been a laugh if he hadn’t tried to suppress it and ended up snorting unattractively. Julia bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

Julia started giggling harder, and by the time they were dropped off at Baker Street, both of their faces were red from laughter. Mrs. Hudson saw them and smiled, ushering them inside her flat for tea and more homemade biscuits.

Sherlock almost never ate, but he had a massive sweet tooth, and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits were practically one hundred percent sugar. Needless to say, when he was hungry enough, he could eat a whole batch of them.

“I’ll be going to my sister’s for Christmas, dear, so I won’t be around to remind you to clean up the flat,” Mrs. Hudson announced, setting down a cup in front of them. “Make sure it stays tidy. You should decorate! Oh, the flat would look just lovely, all covered in tinsel and holly leaves.”

“Christmas?” Sherlock mumbled.

“It’s already the fifth, dear. Of December.”

“I know that, Mrs. Hudson. But why do we have to decorate?” he whined. “Christmas is a farce created entirely by businessmen and women in order to make more money at the end of the year. It’s a _false holiday_.”

“Can we? Decorate?” Julia questioned, her eyes wide. “My dad and I used to hang wreaths on all the doors and make tinsel out of popcorn. We would put up the tree together, and he’d always let me put on the star, but he wouldn’t ever fix it even though it was always crooked. We only made lemon biscuits because my dad liked those best, and he’d always eat them all, so we had to make more for Father Christmas. My mum told me he wasn’t real when I was like, six, but we still made the biscuits anyway.”

“Oh, that’s just lovely, dear. Of course Sherlock will let you decorate.”

“Of course,” repeated Sherlock. “You can decorate the flat if you wish.”

Julia grinned. “That’s great! Thank you.”

“However, we don’t have any decorations.”

“I’m sure I have some I could spare,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I won’t be here, so you can use mine, if you like. I’ve got a few wreaths and some tinsel.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock tried to tune them out as they discussed their various Christmas traditions. _Do you like fruitcake? No, I’ve never fancied it myself, really._ Tedious. He was thinking about Julia’s father. It seemed that his wife had been more or less indifferent towards the girl, but he had tried to make her happy. Sherlock supposed that an assassin working under the most dangerous man in Europe – perhaps even the world – wouldn’t have that large a capacity for motherly love.

Julia spoke with such reverence towards her father that Sherlock couldn’t help but grit his teeth. He was dead; there wasn’t any getting him back. Why was Julia still hung up on him? It’d been years ago. She should’ve gotten over it by now. Sherlock sighed mentally.

 _A bit not good, Sherlock,_ he thought. _Are you jealous? Jealous of a dead man just because his daughter still loves him? This is low, Sherlock, especially for you._

He excused himself and walked upstairs. He picked up his violin and let the bow move of its own accord. He felt the music flow from his fingertips and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He’d have to buy Julia a Christmas gift, wouldn’t he?

~*~

The next two weeks passed uneventfully. Julia hung up a wreath on the door to their flat and tinsel on the banister of the staircase. There was no tree, but Julia didn’t mind that so much. She’d take what she could get when it came to Christmas, her first one in years.

Molly offered to take Julia shopping for a present for Sherlock, and she accepted immediately. Sherlock had no problem with her being gone; in fact, he seemed relieved to have Julia out of his company. She tried not to let it get to her.

Julia didn’t know much about Sherlock other than he liked to experiment on body parts, played the violin, and was in love with John Watson. Sherlock would appreciate severed tongues or toes as a gift, but Julia didn’t think it was entirely appropriate. Besides, Molly would never give her body parts, and where else was a fifteen-year-old girl supposed to find them? She knew she couldn’t do anything about the John problem, so it seemed as though something for the violin was her best bet.

After talking to at least four different people, the two of them left the music shop with a book of unmarked sheet music and a block of rosin, hopefully the right kind for Sherlock’s violin. Molly took her to get her nails redone in red for the season, and they stopped for lunch before Molly dropped Julia off at Baker Street.

“Happy Christmas,” Molly said, giving Julia a quick hug.

“Happy Christmas,” Julia replied.

She ran up the stairs to her room to hide the gifts before entering the flat. When she did, she froze in the doorway. A small tree about two feet high was sitting on an end table that had been stuffed into the corner of the sitting room. The table was covered in a gauzy red cloth that sported white lace around the edges. Boxes of plastic baubles and glass figurines sat on the floor, open and ready to be emptied.

“Is it too small?” Sherlock asked, reading something on his laptop. He paused and looked at the tree inquisitively. “I doubt all of Mrs. Hudson’s ornaments will fit, not unless we want it to look like Father Christmas vomited all of his cheer and goodwill onto it.” He stood and walked over to the boxes, picking out a porcelain boy riding on a sled. “They don’t even match.”

“It’s lovely,” Julia said, standing next to Sherlock. “Perfect, really. Anything bigger and the flat would’ve been suffocated.” She took the ornament from Sherlock’s hands and hung it on a branch carefully, bending the tip so the hook wouldn’t slide off. “I like it.”

They spent half an hour putting ornaments on and moving them around to balance everything out. Julia wrapped silver tinsel around the tree and smiled, standing back to appreciate their work. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“It’s missing something.”

“Do you not like the tinsel? Maybe a different color…”

“No,” Sherlock answered. “It’s missing the star. It’s probably in one of those boxes. Why don’t you look for it?”

Julia rooted through the boxes, putting aside wreaths and colorful plastic baubles. She held up a bright yellow star. It was small but pretty, and it fit perfectly on their tree. Julia smiled and stood in the middle of the room, gazing at their tree. She sniffed.

“It smells like cinnamon.”

“Mrs. Hudson put a candle in the kitchen. You may blow it out if you like.”

“It smells really good.”

“Good. We can make biscuits later if you wish.”

“That’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Hudson said she’s leaving us some before she heads out to her sister’s. Hers are really good,” Julia said, looking through the cabinets for something to eat. “You’re not him, you know. My dad.”

“I’m aware,” he replied tersely. “I was merely attempting to-”

“I just meant that you don’t have to try,” Julia interrupted. “You know, to be him. I don’t want you to be him.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” She looked at the bookshelf, her eyes narrowing. “Sherlock? Can I borrow a book?”

“If you like medical journals.”

“You don’t have any fiction books?”

“No.”

Julia read the titles avidly, making a list in her head of books she’d have to read later.

“ _The Two Hundred Most Challenging Unsolved Cases of the Eighteenth Century.”_

“A Christmas gift from John a few years back. Solved them all within a month.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“Two months.”

“Sure… What’s- hang on…” Julia picked a book off the shelf and held it up. “Agatha Christie. Do you have a lot of mystery books, then?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “That must be John’s. He must have left it behind by accident.”

“Do you think he would mind if I read it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, what is it?”

“Could I use the newspaper after you’re done with it?”

“Take it.”

Julia grabbed the paper and bolted upstairs, calling down a hasty thanks. She took the rosin and the sheet music and placed it gently in the middle of the paper. She wrapped it carefully and stashed it in the back corner of her closet, where it would remain until Christmas morning.

Julia woke late on the twenty-fifth of December, and the sun was already shining. It had snowed the night before, and the ground was covered in slush. There were fewer cars than usual, given the holiday, but enough that the roads were almost devoid of the white powder that consumed everything else.

Julia brought out the package and walked slowly downstairs. She wasn’t surprised to find nothing under their tree. It wasn’t as if she had expected anything in the first place. The tree was enough.

Sherlock walked out of his bedroom yawning.

“Good morning,” Julia said, holding the bundle of newspaper awkwardly in her hands. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “So it is.”

“What are we doing today?”

“I’ve a few experiments I’d like to finish. I don’t care what you get up to.”

“Oh. All right, then. Um, there’s-”

“You got me a gift.” Sherlock’s eyebrows were raised.

“Well… yes.”

“I…”

“Are you actually speechless?” Julia laughed. “I think I can die happy.”

Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t expect you’d want to get me anything.”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re… we’re family now, yeah? You and me.”

Sherlock swallowed, turned around, and walked back into his room. It was Julia’s turn to frown. That had been a bust, then, hadn’t it? She put the gift on the table and opened the refrigerator. She heard floorboards creak and knew Sherlock was in the kitchen, possibly cataloging her responses.

“Sorry I said anything,” Julia said quietly. “Just ignore me. I’m just happy, is all.”

“Are you?” he asked, just as softly. Julia closed the door, and Sherlock was standing there, a square package wrapped in blue paper and a bag with yellow tissue clutched in his hands. “Happy? Here. With me.”

“Yeah,” Julia replied. “It beats living with Moran.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

 _Perhaps not the best thing you could’ve said, there, Julia,_ she berated herself.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she huffed, looking around the kitchen for something to help her find her words. “Yes, living here is much better than living with Moran. But living in a sewer with a bunch of mice would still probably be better than that. So it’s not a very, er, accurate description.”

“So, you… you are happy here?”

“I like it here. A lot. I like that you’re letting me paint my room. That I’ve got my own room in the first place. That you don’t want me to be different.”

“I… that’s good. Good.” Sherlock gestured to the packages. “This is for you. Happy Christmas.”

Julia pushed her hastily-wrapped gift towards Sherlock. “This is yours. Sorry it isn’t as pretty.”

“I stole the wrapping paper from Mrs. Hudson.” He paused and looked at her. “Go on, then, open up.”

Julia smiled and tore the paper off the square box. She grinned at Sherlock. “A laptop?”

“It’s yours, but don’t think I can’t monitor it,” the man warned. “You’ll eventually need one for schoolwork, I assume.”

“School? I can’t go to _school_. I haven’t in years; I’ve missed everything. I’m too stupid.”

“Nonsense. You’re very intelligent for your age.”

“Not where it counts.” Julia frowned. “Open yours. Then I’ll open the other one.”

So Sherlock did, and his normally stoic face melted into a soft smile. “Sheet music and rosin. How… useful.”

Julia fidgeted. “Sorry if you don’t like it. I knew you liked to write music, so I thought it would be a good idea. I did the best I could. I had to talk to a bunch of people to get the right type of rosin, too.”

“Thank you, Julia. It’s very thoughtful.”

“Good. Okay.”

Sherlock nodded at the bag. “It’s from Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh. Really? Okay.” She pulled out the tissue paper and folded it neatly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Julia stuck out her tongue. “She didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Please. She adores you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I imagine it can’t be that difficult to like you.”

Julia frowned. “Is that a compliment? I’m not really sure.”

“Take it however you wish. Do get a move on. I wasn’t lying about those experiments.”

Julia sighed and reached into the bag. She pulled out three bottles of nail polish and a tube of lip gloss.

“Ah. Mrs. Hudson’s always wanted a daughter. She frequently refers to me as her son when she visits her book club. I suppose she’s not far off.”

Julia laughed. “Okay. Now what’s for breakfast?”

“Whatever is in the refrigerator,” Sherlock replied. “Before you do that, though, there is something else I wish to give to you.” He handed Julia a light envelope and started picking at his cuticle. He seemed to realize what he was doing and clasped his hands together.

Julia sat back in her chair and opened the envelope. Her hand closed around something cool. It was a thin bracelet with a heart-shaped charm. It definitely wasn’t new. It had been well cared-for, cleaned often, but Julia could tell it had been someone else’s.

“My grandmother’s,” Sherlock said. “She died when I was young.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t want it…”

“No, I- thank you. It’s- I like it. A lot. Can you help me put it on?”

Julia found that she didn’t hesitate to roll up her sleeves. Showing off her scars hadn’t even crossed her mind. She mentally berated herself for being so careless with her secrets. Why not rent a billboard? Last time someone had seen her arms, she’d gotten assaulted and Sherlock had nearly gotten arrested. He’d nearly killed Anderson. Bad things would happen if everyone knew.

Sherlock fastened the bracelet around her wrist without saying a word. Julia thanked him again and set about making herself breakfast.

The day passed quietly. Sherlock gave no indication of looking up from his experiments, but Julia didn’t care so much. She was also relieved that her mother hadn’t shown up. She’d been expecting at least a Christmas visit or a cruel attempt at a gift.

“Where’s John?” she asked as she poured herself a glass of milk.

“At his sister’s, most likely. Christmas is about family, he used to say. His father’s dead, and his sister is an alcoholic, but that never stops him.”

“What about you? Don’t you spend Christmas with your family?”

“Obviously not.”

“But what about your brother? Don’t you have cousins? I’m sure your… parents would like to see you.”

“They’re not dead. They’re just a bit put out at the moment.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mummy didn’t approve of my suicide.”

“I- Well, I can understand that. But Mycroft?”

“You’ve met him.”

“Yeah, but…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“It’s Christmas.”

The man sighed. Julia sat on the couch and wrapped a blanket around herself. She flipped through channels on the television until she got to an old movie she used to watch when she was younger. Ten minutes later, Sherlock entered the room and planted himself on the other end of the sofa. He stayed silent.

Julia rolled her eyes. “Go ahead.”

“This movie is built on a foundation of lies. The amount of magic needed to animate a pile of snow would be exponentially greater than that displayed. Not to mention the fact that magic isn’t _real_.”


	8. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a present, and Julia gets upset.  
> Title is "What If" by Coldplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please be aware of the tags as you read. I don't want to make anyone uneasy or trigger anyone.  
> Also, feel free to tell me if there's something wrong or inconsistent!

“Where did you get that?” Sherlock questioned, glaring daggers at the sketchbook and pencil set resting on the couch next to Julia.

“It was in my room. It had my name on it, so I opened it. I think it’s from Mycroft.”

“Of course it was Mycroft.”

“I haven’t drawn in a long time,” Julia said. “I’ve never had pencils like these, either.”

Sherlock took a closer look at the sketchbook. The stern face of Gavin Lestrade glared back at him. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He picked up the book with one hand. Julia grabbed onto the other side, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry. Please let me keep it. I won’t draw anything else in it, I promise.”

“Why wouldn’t I let you keep it?”

“You aren’t going to throw it away?”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock said slowly. “Be careful, you’ll tear the pages.”

Julia relaxed her grip but did not remove her hands. “They’re not good.”

“Nonsense. Can’t I look through them and judge them for myself?”

“None of them are any good.”

“I don’t care. Let me see them.”

Julia slowly let go of the book. She brought her legs up to her chest and stared at Sherlock, who took a seat on the arm of his chair. He flipped through the papers silently, starting from the beginning.

A pencil drawing of Mycroft smirked up at him from the first page. Sherlock scoffed. Julia closed her eyes.

“Why did you draw _him_ first?”

“I wanted to get him on paper before I forgot what he looked like.”

“Hm. But I'm much better looking.”

“I see you every day. I can draw you anytime I like.”

“Have you?”

“Would you just look at the rest of them?”

Sherlock spent another moment inspecting Mycroft's smug expression. The resemblance really was uncanny, he thought.

“You did this from memory?”

“Yes.”

“The last time you saw Mycroft was over six weeks ago.”

“Yeah.”

“And you drew this when?”

“Last week. I drew a lot. I was bored.”

Sherlock flipped the page and was met by a shyly smiling Molly Hooper. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and in her eyes there was a laugh waiting to happen. John and Lestrade both glared at him from the next pages. Sherlock saw them and half-smiled. Their expressions were not unfamiliar to him.

He paused when he came to a picture of a man whom he didn't recognize. Yet he knew who he was immediately. It was in the spark of his dark eyes and the curve of his jaw.

“This is your father.”

“Yes.”

On the next page was a picture of Mary, her face expressionless. Completely devoid of emotion. Sherlock swallowed. _Mary_ had a portrait in Julia’s sketchbook, yet he had not seen a single drawing of himself. He almost scoffed at his childish jealousy.

A man with dark eyes and hair stared at him from the next page. His nose was flat, and his eyebrows were thick. There was a long scar from his left cheek to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock had seen that face before, staring up at him vacantly, blood oozing from his neck.

“You’re supposed to get it out, right?” Julia said. “You’re not supposed to keep things inside.”

Sherlock shrugged and flipped the page. Mrs. Hudson was smiling at him, laughing. A boy who must have been Lestrade’s son beamed up at something over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock was playing the violin, his back turned. His dressing gown flowed around his knees. It must’ve been a night that Julia had a nightmare. He didn’t think she remembered those. The girl never talked about them, but obviously they had stuck with her.

Sherlock was gazing intently into his microscope. He was in his pajamas again, evidently too lazy to change into decent clothes. The microscope itself was beautifully drawn, the details almost perfect. The level of skill needed to draw such images was astounding.

Sherlock was typing something on his laptop. This picture was the first of his full face. It was illuminated by his computer screen. Sherlock wondered on which occasion Julia remembered him like this. There were multiple possibilities, each more likely than the last.

Sherlock was standing tensely, a knife in his hand. His hair was uncontrolled, and he wore a dull t-shirt and jeans. His eyes were narrowed, and a slight frown pulled at his mouth. It wasn’t portrayed in the drawing, but Sherlock knew that in the pockets of his sturdy jacket were a chocolate bar with nuts and fifteen euros.

“I can draw you anytime I like,” Julia repeated quietly.

“Such talent should not go unnoticed,” Sherlock mused. “Don’t you agree, Mycroft?”

Julia looked over Sherlock’s shoulder and grinned. “Thank you. I haven’t drawn in ages. I didn’t think I still could.”

“Obviously that is not the case,” Mycroft replied. “I’m glad you enjoy the gift. I’ve something for you, now, Sherlock. Something I think you’ll enjoy as well.”

“Hmm, a little late for a Christmas present, don’t you think?”

“Think of it as a belated birthday gift.”

“When’s your birthday?” Julia asked.

“Last week.”

“Why didn’t we celebrate?”

Mycroft chuckled. “What gave you the impression the Holmes’ are ones to celebrate?”

Julia rolled her eyes and left the sitting room. Mycroft was silent until the girl slammed her bedroom door shut.

“You gave her Grandmother’s charm bracelet.”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite a lot of sentiment, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s not why you’re here.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. He handed Sherlock a file folder with the name _Mary Morstan_ typed neatly across the top. “Do with this what you will. Happy birthday, little brother. Be careful.”

Sherlock threw the folder on the couch and looked up at Mycroft. Both men knew Sherlock would practically devour the information as soon as he could, but neither said a word about it.

“I suppose you’ll be going now.”

Mycroft smirked and left the flat, shutting the door quietly behind him. Julia caught the door and settled herself on the couch, a book in her hand. Sherlock placed the sketchbook gently on the coffee table and attacked the folder. A black and white picture of Mary Morstan gazed up at him from the first page. It was taken from a distance, and her features were fuzzy, but it was undoubtedly her.

> _Name:_ Mary Cecilia Morstan-Lloyd
> 
> _Date of Birth:_ 3 December 1982
> 
> _Height:_ 5’3
> 
> _Weight_ : 128 lbs.
> 
> _Status:_ presumed dead, highly dangerous
> 
> _Last seen_ : St. Petersburg, Russia
> 
> If spotted, approach with extreme caution.
> 
> Spouse: Christopher Lloyd (deceased)
> 
> Children: Julia Rachel Lloyd
> 
> _Date of Birth_ : 19 January 1999
> 
> _Last seen_ : Germany, accompanied by Sebastian Moran

 

Sherlock gripped the papers tightly in his hands.

“Julia. Rachel. Lloyd,” he ground out, his knuckles turning white.

The girl looked up from her book. “Did I ever tell you my full name?”

“No, nor your mother’s.”

“I thought I told you and Mycroft that I didn’t know it.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things, yes. But you knew about your mother.”

“Yeah, I did. She’s dead.”

“You never told me. You never let on, not once.”

“Let on about what?” Julia replied, chewing her lip. She kept her eyes on her hands.

“Mary Morstan. Mary Morstan- _Lloyd_. She’s your mother. She’s _married_ to _John_.”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” said the girl, her eyes watering. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“You. Didn’t. Tell me. You didn’t tell me your mother was still alive, that she was this dangerous, that she was married to the man- to my best friend.”

“Well, you’re the genius, aren’t you?” Julia cried. “You were supposed to figure it out. You weren’t supposed to need my help!”

“Your _help_? For all I know, you’re working for her!”

“I would never- Don’t you say that! Don’t say that just to hurt me.” Julia stood, putting her book down. Tears dripped slowly down her face. “I hate my mother. I have hated her since the moment she left me. I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t do anything to help her. Ever.”

Hurting Julia was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do, and he felt that thought wriggling in the back of his mind. But he didn’t care, not then. Not when John was in danger.

“She’s alive, then! You admit you know it.”

“She’s supposed to be dead!” Julia yelled. “You killed her! You were supposed to kill her. But she’d not dead! She’s alive, and she hates me, and she hates you, and I don’t know what she’ll do to John, but I can’t imagine it’ll be pretty.”

“For God’s sake, why the _hell_ didn’t you tell me? We could’ve worked something out; we could’ve _done something_ instead of sitting around waiting like lambs being led to the slaughter!”

“What was I supposed to say?” Julia retorted, her fists clenched. “The guy you’re in love with-” Sherlock started to protest, but Julia just raised her voice. “The guy you’re in love with married my mother, an assassin who happens to want your head on a silver platter? Is that it? I’ll say it if that’s what it takes for you to listen.”

“You could’ve said anything!”

“He doesn’t want you; he wants a cruel, sadistic bitch who gets off on watching you struggle with yourself.”

“Julia, stop this!”

“Oh, are you listening now?”

“You could’ve said anything. You could’ve given me something to work with!”

“I couldn’t!” Julia yelled. “Don’t you get it? Can’t you see? You’re supposed to be intelligent. Why can’t you get this through your head?”

“What even is the point of you?” Sherlock complained, running his hands through his hair. “You’re useless!”

“Really? Last time I checked, you’re the one who keeps me around!”

“No one said you had to stay!” he bellowed.

Julia swallowed.

_No,_ Sherlock thought, _please stay._

Julia turned slowly and climbed the stairs to her room. Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in relief. He let out a shallow breath and leaned on the table, his back to the door. He heard footsteps come back downstairs not five minutes later, but there was something else to them, a new element. He gripped the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

A duffel bag.

~*~

Julia didn’t have any money. She realized this after she had slammed the cab door shut. Julia also didn’t have a plan. She realized this after the cabbie asked her where she wanted to go.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know. I-”

She swallowed and spat out an address.

_Of course it would come back to this_ , Julia thought, standing in front of the door to her mother’s house. _It always would._

She wiped her eyes and rang the doorbell. Blessedly, John answered the door. He frowned.

“Hello,” he said.

“I need twelve pounds for the cab.”

John took the bills out of his pocket and handed them to Julia, glancing over her at the cab stalling at the curb.

“So what are you doing here?” John asked once they were inside.

“Three months ago, Sherlock said I could trust you with my life.”

“Sher- Is he okay? He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

“He kicked me out. Where’s Mary?”

“He what.” It wasn’t a question.

“He kicked me out. I messed up. I’m an idiot; he doesn’t want me. Is Mary home?”

“Uh, no,” John replied, his brow furrowing. “No, she’s out. Listen, for all that intelligence, Sherlock’s an idiot.”

“Please, just… just let me stay here until I figure something out.”

“What do you mean, ‘figure something out?’” John scoffed. “One minute, now, I’m going to give him a call.”

“No, he hates me just like she does!”

“Sherlock doesn’t hate you. He didn’t mean whatever he said.”

Julia thought back to Sally, how Sherlock had called her an idiot the first time Julia had met her. She shook her head. “He never says anything he doesn’t mean.”

John’s phone rang, and he raised an eyebrow. “It’s Sherlock.”

“Don’t answer it.”

John rolled his eyes and put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” There was a pause, and the blonde man glanced at her. “She’s fine. Sherlock. Sherlock, stop. What did you- Oh? Oh, you didn’t do anything. I see. Sure. She says you kicked her out… Yes, those words exactly. Sherlock? Sher- hello?”

John sighed and pocketed his phone. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s the second door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t bother.”

Julia threw her duffel on the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor, her back leaning on the side of it.

_Useless. You’re useless._

Normally it was just Julia or her mother screaming at her whilst she spiraled into a fit of depression, but Sherlock’s words joined the mix this time. His deep voice taunted and laughed as the Julia in Julia’s head adamantly agreed.

She could feel her skin crawl. Her fingers twitched, itching to hold a blade between them. She smiled cruelly, chuckling to herself. Julia dug her nails into one of her scars, biting her lip when the pain got to be almost unbearable.

She was getting used to the pain in her forearm when her phone rang.

It rang again.

And it rang again.

Julia didn’t answer. Finally, the ringing ceased, and the phone buzzed instead.

_(7:08pm) Don’t come home_

A choked laugh forced its way from Julia’s throat. She hardly recognized it as her own. Tears slid down her face. Her throat tightened, and she coughed. She couldn’t get any air inside her. Julia’s breath quickened. Her heart hammered in her ears.  Julia wrapped her arms around her legs and pulled them to her chest. She dug her nails into her shoulder. The sting grounded her, and she sucked a breath in and let it out slowly.

_Don’t come home._

Home? Home.

Was 221B her home? Obviously it wasn’t anymore. Sherlock had just been mistaken, then. But Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t make mistakes, especially not stupid mistakes like those. Not stupid mistakes like forgetting his signature. Something was off.

John opened the door and knelt next to Julia. He rubbed her back with the heel of his hand. She saw his mouth move, but she couldn’t hear whatever it was he was trying to say. Julia looked up at him through her tears. John. She looked at John.

“Where is she?” she whispered.

“Where is who?”

_You’re not going to say anything about me. If you say anything to anyone, I’ll kill them. And Sherlock, too. Sherlock, too. Sherlock, too._

“Sherlock, too.”

“Sherlock? What about him?”

“Baker Street.”

“Yeah, that’s where he is,” John said. “Are you all right?”

“Sherlock mentioned, a while ago. Your gun. Bring your gun.”

“You aren’t making any sense.”

“Sherlock’s in trouble. Baker Street. Your gun. You should bring your gun. She’s not here. Of course she’s not. She knows, she knows. She’s there.”

“You’re having a panic attack. That’s okay. Everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about. There’s no reason to panic.”

“I’m not having a panic attack!” Julia cried. “I’m being perfectly reasonable. _You_ are the one who won’t bloody listen to me!”

“Julia, stop. Take a deep breath.”

“She’s going to kill Sherlock.”

“Who?” John asked. His eyes were cold and his jaw was set. “Why?”

“John,” Julia whispered, “where is she?”

“You seem to know more than I do,” John replied scathingly. “Tell me where they are.”

“Where’s Mary?”


	9. Spiderhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and Julia get a visitor.  
> Title is "Spiderhead" by Cage the Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the tags! Also, feel free to correct me if anything seems wrong or inconsistent.

“John,” Sherlock sighed. Thank _God_ he’d picked up the phone. “Is she there?”

“She’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Completely sure?” Sherlock questioned sternly. “She lies. She’ll lie to you, John. I’m sure she’s not okay.”

“Sherlock.”

“Send her home. No! No, keep her there. She won’t want to talk to me. Won’t want to look at me, even. John, are you _sure_ she’s all right?”

“Sherlock, stop.”

“Oh, of course she’s not. She’s not okay. Not ‘ _fine_.’ She always lies about being fine. It’s the one way to tell.”

“What did you-?”

“Nothing, John! I did nothing. And she left, and I did nothing.”

“Oh? Oh, you didn’t do anything. I see.”

“Exactly! John, I didn’t do _anything_ ,” he spat.

“Sure.”

“How did she get to you? Why would she even go to _you_? Isn’t Mary there?”

“She says you kicked her out.”

“Those words _exactly_? Did she say that? Did she really say that? She thinks I-”

“Yes, those words exactly.”

“Oh, no, no, no. This is bad, John, this is very-”

“Sherlock? Sher-”

Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his mobile. He ran his fingers through his hair and swore. He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring out the window, waiting for a flash of blonde hair to pop out of a taxi or around the corner. Eventually he made himself a cup of tea, his hands shaking all the while.

He walked into the living room to find Mary sitting in his chair, one arm dangling off the edge, a gun in her hand. She smiled and clicked the safety off.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said. “I see you’ve gotten rid of the girl. It’s about time, too. It might be just the push she needs to off herself, the useless little parasite.”

Sherlock ground his teeth together. “Mary. What a surprise.”

“Is it really?” the woman questioned. “I’d have thought it would be obvious. You find out about me, I kill you. Now, why don’t you sit?”

“In a moment.” Sherlock walked into the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”

_(7:08pm) Don’t come home_

“Don’t move another step, Sherlock,” Mary ordered. “Do you think I’m a moron? Sit. Down.”

Sherlock sat. He sipped his tea, his mind racing. He had to calm it down; he had to focus. There was too much going on. There was too much filling his head. He had to get rid of it. Julia was with John. John was at his own house. So was John’s gun. Mary would be going back to John after she killed Sherlock. John had Julia.

Mary could not go back.

“I assume you picked the locks on the doors. That, I can understand. How did you know I found out about you, though?”

“Did you honestly think Big Brother is the only one who watches this place?” Mary laughed, standing. “Please. I’ve had eyes on you since the moment you jumped off that roof. I watched you kill all of my… _coworkers._ How efficient you were. Although, rather messy, near the end. Did you really have to gut Peters like you did?”

“She heard me. She fought back. Piercing her stomach is hardly gutting her, is it?”

Mary shrugged. She started walking around the flat, picking up seemingly random objects, inspecting them for a time, and putting them in their original place.

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to kill me now,” Sherlock said. He put his empty teacup down and crossed his legs. “Go ahead, then.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you _now_. I will, someday, but not _now._ ” She saw Sherlock’s frown and smiled. “Do I remind you of anyone? The boss always liked me the best, you know.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sherlock replied dully.

“He said I was ruthless. That I killed without mercy.” Mary stopped in front of Sherlock and leaned forward until her lips were brushing his ear. Sherlock shuddered as her breath stirred his hair. “He was right. I’ve killed so many. Most were helpless. It’s rather entertaining.”

Sherlock swallowed. He could almost taste her floral perfume. It made him want to choke. Mary pulled away finally, and Sherlock felt a gush of air force its way out of his lungs. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He was trying to steady himself when Mary put a hand on both arms of the chair, effectively penning him in.

“He didn’t kill himself. It was me. Julia’s father, that is.”

“You… killed your own husband. Of course. Your gun in his hand. You’d never have told him any information. Moriarty would’ve skinned you for it.”

It made Sherlock’s stomach turn to think of what she would do to John if he ever figured it out. He also decided that Julia would never know. She made peace with her father’s suicide. That’s how it was going to stay. With any luck, that truth would die with the two of them, the detective and the assassin.

“Quite literally,” Mary replied. She moved Sherlock’s legs and knelt on the chair, her legs dangling off the edge. She wriggled until she could sit on Sherlock’s lap without falling backwards.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, swallowing hard. He felt his heart race, beating erratically in his chest. He was acutely aware of the gun pressed into his stomach but forced his features to remain stony.

“Oh, hush.”

“I really don’t-”

“ _Hush_.” Mary put a finger on Sherlock’s lips, silencing him. When she was satisfied he wouldn’t interrupt again, she stroked his cheek with her knuckles. “I loved him, you know.”

“Look where that got him.”

“Not Julia’s father,” Mary whispered. “I loved _him_. He was so clever. So unforgiving, so _cruel_.”

Sherlock didn’t have an answer. What a rare thing, and it happened at the worst times.

“Now, _he_ actually killed himself. Oh, I was so angry. You didn’t deserve to live after what you did to him.” She traced Sherlock’s face with a fingertip. Eyebrows, cheekbones, nose, lips, and back again. “But I watched you. And I realized how wrong I’d been. You beat him. You’re so much better.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I like to think of it that way, yes.”

“You’re so _clever_. And I did watch you. I was always watching you,” Mary whispered. “You’re ruthless, too. You killed without mercy. You don’t do much of that anymore, but you’re still so cruel. You’re still so cold.” She licked her lips and gazed into Sherlock’s eyes. “I wonder if I could turn you warm.”

“What are you saying?”

“Think of all the fun we could have, Sherlock,” she purred. She rubbed her nose against his. “We match, you and I. Don’t you see? I’m not as clever as you. I can’t ever hope to be. But I can be enough, I promise.”

“We’re nothing alike,” Sherlock spat.

“But we are,” Mary protested, snaking a hand behind his head to scratch his hair. “We really are, Sherlock. I’ve killed so many people. So have you. I know you have, I’ve watched you do it. It’s… beautiful. We match. Don’t you _see_?”

“I’m not him,” Sherlock replied. “Moriarty. I’m not him.”

“No,” Mary agreed, “you are so much better. So much cleverer, so much colder.” Her eyelids fluttered shut as she tilted his head up to hers.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said sharply, but she didn’t listen. She dug the barrel of the gun deeper into the flesh of his stomach and brought his lips to hers. It was surprisingly tender, and Mary let out a satisfied sigh. Sherlock remained still, the cold metal a reminder of what might happen if he tried to move.

She tasted like strawberries. Sherlock wanted to vomit.

“We could be so good together.”

“I would rather die.”

“I can arrange that as well,” Mary assured. She smiled and lightly kissed Sherlock’s neck. He gently pushed Mary away from him. She pulled back and gazed at him thoughtfully, her pupils dilated.

“I thought you wanted to be with me,” Sherlock supplied. “Now you’re back to killing me?”

“If I can’t have you, no one can. _Especially_ not that whining, moronic little maggot you lower yourself to live with. We’ll have to get rid of her. Oh, and John. But that’s all right, we can take care of them. We’ll do it together. It’ll be so easy, Sherlock. Won’t we do it together?”

“No,” Sherlock refused. “No, never. They have to stay safe. They have to be alive. You can’t do anything to them.”

Mary’s eyes burned. “I can do whatever I like to them, Sherlock Holmes. I used them, and I don’t need them anymore, so I can throw them away _if I so choose_.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said. “What makes you think I’ll let you?”

Mary’s breath hitched. “You mean you’ll stay with me? If we keep them safe, we can stay together. Is that what you mean?” She grabbed his collar and slotted their lips together, ignoring his rather vocal protest. “Yes, it’s perfect. We’ll leave tonight.” She kissed him again. “They don’t have to know. They’ll never know. We can live away from here, so far away that they’ll never be able to find us.” She smiled against his lips. “And we can be happy. So ha-”

“Enough,” someone barked. “Enough!”

John stood at the door, his gun in his hand. His eyes were cold and hard. Sherlock could practically see the tension rolling off him in waves.

“What the bloody _hell_ is going on?”

~*~

Julia chewed her lip as John slowly pushed the door open. She wrung her hands and wondered why she’d insisted on tagging along. John unlocked the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and pushed Julia inside. It was empty, and Julia was confused until she remembered about the book club Mrs. Hudson went to every Friday.

“Hey,” Julia protested, “you can’t lock me up in here.”

“I said _don’t_ ,” a voice said from upstairs.

_It’s Sherlock. Oh, God, is she hurting him?_

“Stop this.”

_She is, oh, my God, it’s all my fault._

“Stay there,” John ordered quietly, pointing at the sofa.

“But she’s hurting him. I can’t just leave him!” whispered Julia.

“You did. You did leave him; you came to me,” John replied. “That’s why I’m going up there, and you’re staying down here. You’ll be no help. You will get in the way.”

Julia nodded. She sat on the couch and put her head in her hands. John left her and shut the door quietly behind him. Julia could hear his footsteps on the stairs. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“Enough. Enough!”

Julia swallowed and hugged her knees. It was John.

“What the bloody _hell_ is going on?”

She clenched her fists.

“Mary, don’t.”

There was a shot and a crash, and Julia bolted out of the room. She ran up the stairs without thinking and stood in the doorway, gaping.

Her mother stood firmly with the barrel of her gun pointed at Sherlock’s chest. His hands were up in surrender, and he was shaking his head. John had his gun trained on Mary, who didn't take her eyes off him. A lamp had been hit by a bullet, and the glass was shattered on the floor.

“I said you couldn’t hurt them.”

“ _You_ said? Since when does she listen to you, and since when does she want to kill you?”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Mary protested. Her voice was watery. “I don’t, I swear.”

“Tell that to the gun you’re holding,” Sherlock muttered, turning his head to look at John. His mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it.

John glanced behind him and scowled. “I told you to stay downstairs!”

“Downstairs? You shouldn’t have brought her here at all!” Sherlock yelled at John. He turned to Julia, his eyes narrow. “I told you not to come back. Get out of here. Now.”

There was pink lipstick on Sherlock’s face and neck.

Julia was cold. She was cold all over. She felt like there were stones in her stomach, dragging her down. She gripped the door frame to keep from stumbling.

“You said you weren’t- you said.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally. “No, it’s not that.”

“And I thought- you _said_.” Julia could feel tears burning her eyes. She hated them. She hated her tears and her mother and guns and death and-

“You always ruin everything,” Mary seethed, aiming the gun at Julia. She put her finger on the trigger. “You good-for-nothing-”

“If you harm her in any way, I swear on my life I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands,” Sherlock said calmly. A fire raged behind his cool eyes.

Mary looked at him, grinning. “Yes,” she said. “There it is. Merciless. Willing to kill even one of your own!”

“We are _not_ _alike_ ,” Sherlock protested. “Put the gun down, Mary.”

She shook her head. “He’ll shoot me.”

“Not if you _put the gun down_.”

“He’ll just try to come between us, Sherlock,” Mary replied, glaring at John. “So will the girl. We could take care of them now, together.”

“Try to- we’re married!” John stammered.

“Did you honestly think I loved you?” Mary spat. Her voice was cold and full of hatred. “I can barely stand the sight of you. No, I love him. I love Sherlock.”

“What the hell?”

“No, you don’t. You love Moriarty, and you think I’m like him, but I’m not.”

“But you beat him. You’re cleverer than he was. You’re better!”

“Are you insane?” John shouted. “What the hell does he have to do with this?”

“Didn’t Mary tell you?” Sherlock questioned. He knew he was being immature, but he didn’t care. “She was Moriarty’s top assassin.”

“No, she’s…”

“I’m what?” Mary seethed. “Your timid little florist, that’s me. Not anymore, John. I’m Sherlock’s now. He’s so much more than you could ever hope to be.”

“I want nothing to do with you,” Sherlock replied.

John stepped closer to Mary, putting his finger on the trigger. “Give me one reason not to kill you.”

Mary smiled. “You wouldn’t do anything to harm me, would you? I’m your wife, after all.”

“Not anymore, Mary.”

Mary’s smile wavered. Obviously she hadn’t expected John to be so confident. Julia smirked.

“I’ll do it,” she stated, swinging the gun to point it at Sherlock again. He sighed, but his shoulders were tense.

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock said. “You won’t kill me. You can’t. You are incapable of killing me. What would it do to you?”

Mary swallowed hard as John took another step forward. The gun shook in her hands.

“If you shoot me, John won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

“That would leave no one for the girl,” Mary replied.

“Oh, there’s no chance of her living with you ever again,” Sherlock said, looking right at Julia. “It’s over now, Mary.”

“It can’t be,” she stammered. “You- you love me too. Sherlock, you’re supposed to love me.”

“I don’t,” he answered.

Mary looked between him and John and froze. Julia saw the pieces click into place.

“No,” Sherlock protested. Of course he’d seen it too.

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“He what?” John demanded. Sherlock just glanced at him, a worried expression struggling its way to the surface of his cold mask.

“Over me?” Mary cried. “Me! We match, Sherlock, we _match_. He’s no good for you, I swear it!”

“Sherlock?”

“Nothing, John.”

“I can’t believe you!” Mary shouted. She tightened her grip on the gun. “You lied to me!”

“Put your weapon down,” John ordered. “Or I will put a bullet right between your eyes.”

Mary swallowed and took a deep breath, tears falling delicately from her eyes. “Why would you do this to me?” she whispered. “I thought you would love me. I thought you would see.”

“Mary, I’m going to take the gun from you now,” Sherlock replied. He wrapped a hand around her wrist.

She nodded, her whole body shaking. “All right. Just… just one more thing.”

Mary put the barrel of the gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Sherlock jumped back and turned away, rubbing his forehead. John dropped his gun and sank to his knees.

Julia stood still, staring as the blood leaked out of her mother’s head, slowly but surely staining the floor. She swallowed and mused at the odd emptiness in her chest. She hadn’t felt that since her father died and she’d found him bleeding on the floor of their living room. But that was different, wasn’t it? Julia had loved her father. She still did. The only things she’d felt towards her mother were hate and betrayal. She was sure of it.

Julia blinked, vaguely aware of Sherlock in front of her. He might have been talking – in fact, he was definitely talking – but Julia didn’t hear. She turned away from the scene slowly and trudged up the stairs. She sat down heavily on her bed, hugged her knees, and stared at the cans of navy blue paint that had shown up with her sketchbook.


	10. Cigarette Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Julia deal with the day after.  
> Title is "Cigarette Daydreams" by Cage the Elephant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the tags, please!  
> Also, if something doesn't seem right, don't hesitate to tell me.

“Julia.” Sherlock put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. She didn’t respond. “Julia, you’re in shock. That’s okay. That’s perfectly fine. You should go downstairs, to Mrs. Hudson’s. John and I will meet you there. I’ll- I’ll explain everything.”

Sherlock knew Julia wasn’t listening. She turned and walked upstairs. Sherlock sighed and turned to John. He rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

“No,” John replied scathingly. “I’m not bloody ‘all right.’ My wife just shot herself in the head because of you-”

Sherlock backed away quickly. He put his walls back up and kept his arms at his sides.

“Of course. I am truly sorry for your loss, John.”

John’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “I didn’t mean that, Sherlock. You know I didn’t.”

“No, John, I understand. It is my fault she killed herself,” he answered, pulling out his phone. “If I had known she was working under Moriarty, I would’ve come back sooner and killed her myself ages ago.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Would that have been better for you?” Sherlock went on. “To come home from work one day and find her missing? Would you spend the rest of your life waiting for her to walk through your front door like nothing had happened?”

“You bastard,” John said quietly. “I loved her. I really did, Sherlock, and I thought she loved me too.”

“She was a very convincing actress, wasn’t she, John? And weren’t you two trying for a child? I suspect she was taking contraceptive pills.”

“Shut up!” John yelled. “Stop talking. Just stop.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft greeted blandly after letting the phone ring for the proper amount of time to indicate that he was busy, yes, but not so busy as to ignore his brother when he actually called. _“What is it you wa-”_

“Who do you have watching the flat?”

_“Sherlock, don’t be petty.”_

“I know you have cameras outside the flat,” Sherlock answered. “I know you monitor them continuously and without fail. I know you have someone assigned to watch the feed. Whoever it is, fire them.”

_“What’s happened?”_

“I need people here, now.”

_“Care to explain why?”_

“Well, we missed one, and she broke into my flat and tried to kill me, John, Julia, and then me again.”

Mycroft paused. _“You took care of it?”_

“Obviously.”

_“Someone will be there soon.”_

“Glad to hear it.”

_“Are you really?”_

Sherlock sighed and hung up the phone. He tossed it on the couch and ran his hands through his hair, trying to steady himself. The missions didn’t shake him easily, but Mary had been something different from all of them. It had been personal. She’d threatened both John and Julia.

He’d taken Mary’s wrist-

_Moriarty grabbed his hand-_

-put the gun in her mouth-

_-and pulled the trigger._

Sherlock shook the thought out of his head.

“You should clean that shit off your face before you go up to see her,” John advised. The door downstairs slammed shut with a bang, and Sherlock closed his eyes, wondering how in the world he managed to ruin his relationship with John just after he’d started fixing it.

He heard a knock on the front door and turned to open it, but men and women in body suits were already filing in the door. Sherlock simply nodded towards the body and walked upstairs, leaving them to do their jobs. He wanted no part of this cleanup.

Julia’s door was half-open, so Sherlock walked right in. The girl sat on her bed, staring at the paint cans in the corner of the room.

Paint cans…

Mycroft. Of course. They had probably made their appearance with the sketchbook.

Sherlock sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. He cleared his throat. Julia turned to him, her eyes watery. She smiled weakly and moved to one side of the bed. She patted the space next to her.

Julia crossed her arms and her ankles, staring straight ahead. “You look kind of uncomfortable.”

Sherlock shook his head and moved to lie next to her, leaning against the headboard. The two of them were silent for a few minutes until Julia spoke up.

“I know you don’t like emotions, so I won’t bother you about mine. Okay?”

“I think it would be better if you told me.”

“Today is full of surprises.”

“It is,” Sherlock agreed.

“I heard John shout at you,” Julia admitted. “What did you say to him?”

“Things I’d like to forget,” Sherlock replied. He looked out the window and was greeted by the moon and a few twinkling stars. “It’s getting late. Perhaps this whole _feelings_ conversation can wait until tomorrow. Would you like some tea?”

“No, I’m all right. Thank you,” Julia mumbled.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be just downstairs if anything happens.”

“Right,” the girl replied. Sherlock climbed off the bed and said goodnight.

“You’re a genius,” Julia blurted, stopping Sherlock in the doorway. He looked back at her. She was chewing her lip. “You’re a genius, right?”

“I suppose I am,” Sherlock answered. He wasn’t sure if he liked where this was going.

“I don’t get it. I don’t understand,” she said. “My mother abandoned me. She never cared about me. She held me to impossible standards. She cornered me in the bathroom to warn me not to tell you about her. How many people did she kill? Doesn’t it say in her file? At least one hundred fifty, I’d say.”

“More like two,” Sherlock replied.

“That’s what I mean. She was a murderer. She was cruel and awful to me and my father. She tried to kill you and John today.”

“She did.”

“Mothers aren’t supposed to do that.”

“No.”

“Mothers aren’t supposed to be like that.”

“You’re right.”

“So why was _she_ like that? Why was _my_ mother an assassin?” Julia asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Mothers are supposed to kiss you before you go to bed and make sure you’re safe and teach you how to do things like shave and style your hair and how to dress and- and I didn’t get that! Why was _my mother_ the assassin, Sherlock? Why did it have to be _her_?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I can’t tell you that.”

“You can tell me everything else.”

“Yes,” he replied. “But not this.” He looked around the room, at the stark white walls. “I will have Mycroft send someone to paint next week. We’ll get some posters, or pictures, or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought it was fairly obvious,” Sherlock replied. “We have to cover these walls with something. This white is ghastly.”

“I thought you kicked me out.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

Julia smiled. “So you’re not angry with me?”

“Oh, no, I’m furious you ran off like that,” Sherlock answered. “But I don’t feel like shouting about it today.”

“Are you that upset?”

“ _Yes_.”

“I thought feelings weren’t your thing.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You took a cab by yourself halfway across London without any money or means to defend yourself.”

“Like there are assassins in London,” Julia scoffed.

Sherlock chuckled. “Try to sleep.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock watched the unfamiliar men and women as they scrubbed at the floor and wall. A man swept up the shattered glass from the mirror above the fireplace. Sherlock nodded to them and took out his mobile phone.

_“Sherlock, listen, what I said-”_

“Yes, John, completely right, I’m psychotic.”

_“No, I meant I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true.”_

“Today is full of surprises.”

“ _Funny_ ,” John replied. “ _So why did you call me if you’re not trying to guilt me into apologizing?”_

“I’ll have to pick up Julia’s bag sometime this week. She left with it but didn’t bring it back.”

_“I’ll just bring it by tomorrow.”_

“Tomorrow. You’re working tomorrow.”

John chuckled dully. _“I think I deserve a day off. And we have to talk about what happened.”_

“I thought it was obvious,” Sherlock replied.

_“We’re not letting this sit between us, Sherlock. I’d like to clear up some things.”_

Sherlock sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, John.”

After Mycroft’s cleaning crew left the flat, Sherlock sat on the couch and took out his laptop. He opened John’s blog. There weren’t any new posts. Sherlock shouldn’t have been surprised. They hadn’t gone on any cases; John had barely spoken to him. Their separation wasn’t entirely John’s fault, Sherlock supposed, but it wasn’t as if he’d reached out himself.

He brought up his own blog and skimmed through the brain-numbing babble in the comments section until he couldn’t take the stupidity any longer. He tossed his laptop onto his chair and scratched his neck where Mary had dug her fingers.

Ah, Mary. She’d figured out how Sherlock felt about John. Had he been so obvious? Sherlock mentally kicked himself. He couldn’t allow himself to display such trivial things – emotions. Especially not emotions like lo-

 _Love_?

There seemed to be no other word for it, what he felt for John. It surpassed affection long ago, and it was definitely more than friendship Sherlock wanted. He was rubbish at relationships, but Sherlock was fairly sure ‘ _just friends_ ’ didn’t want to know what the other’s teeth tasted like.

Sherlock would have to add on to John’s wing in his Mind Palace for all the new data he’d have to process. He wondered if John would be gentle like he normally was around Sherlock or if he would think of himself first and take care of Sherlock after.

He found he didn’t really care.

~*~

Julia woke with a start and looked at the clock on her bedside table.

_5:53am_

Her cheeks were wet and her throat hurt. She’d been crying in her sleep. Julia wasn’t surprised. She’d seen her mother’s corpse again, but this time there was a gaping hole where her mouth should have been. Her mother winked at her before blowing Sherlock’s head off.

She closed her eyes but she kept seeing Mary’s face. Julia walked downstairs, hoping to find Sherlock awake. She knew he didn’t sleep much, even though it wasn’t the best idea for his health.

Sherlock was snoring softly on the couch when Julia entered the sitting room. She looked at him and sighed. She looked at his empty chair and sighed again. It would be a tight fit, she thought, but she could make it work. Julia went back upstairs for a pillow and blanket, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Julia wriggled until she was comfortable in the small space and closed her eyes. Mary did not haunt her dreams again.

When she woke up, the couch was empty, and sunlight streamed through the windows. She yawned and stretched, wincing as her joints cracked. She was too young for this, she decided.

Sherlock came into the sitting room with a cup of tea in his hands. He saw her fidget and stilled, gazing at her thoughtfully.

“Good. You’re awake. John is stopping by today to drop off your bag and chat for a bit.”

Julia rolled off the chair. “You don’t ‘chat.’ He’s coming over to talk about Mary, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he probably _hates_ me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that tea? Can you make me a cup?”

“I suppose.” Sherlock replied. He put his tea down and went into the kitchen. “Why would he hate you? You are not your mother. You’ve already proved that.”

“And how did I do that again?”

“By being yourself,” replied Sherlock. “Also, you dragged John here to save me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Julia agreed, trudging into the kitchen after him. “But you said ‘home.’ And you forgot your signature. It wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“What, that I was being threatened by a psyc-”

Julia waited. Sherlock didn’t finish, so Julia did for him.

“A psychopath, yeah. You wouldn’t do that if you weren’t rushed or in danger, and Mary wasn’t home when I got to John’s, so I just assumed she was coming here.”

“Clever,” he muttered.

“Obvious,” Julia corrected.

Sherlock smirked.

“Can we paint my room?”

“Yes, I told you last night that I’d have Mycroft send over some of his minions to do it,” Sherlock said. “He still owes me favors.”

“No, I mean… Can _we_ paint my room?” Julia asked. “If- if you don’t want to, I can do it myself. It’s just- I’d like to be able to do something to get my mind off things.”

“Oh. I don’t see why not,” Sherlock replied. “It would be more convenient to let Mycroft take care of it, but if you want us to paint it ourselves, I suppose that would be acceptable.”

“Thanks.”

Julia took her tea and sat in the living room, staring at anything but the fireplace. Anything but the fireplace. Anything but the fireplace. She swallowed hard and glanced at Sherlock, who was typing away on his laptop.

“She killed my dad, didn’t she?”

Sherlock looked up at her, his eyebrow raised. “What makes you think that?”

“You found out, and she tried to kill you even though she thought she loved you. She almost killed me. Why would she let my dad live if he found out? She certainly didn’t tell him herself,” Julia reasoned. “And you paused before you answered me.”

“She told me she did,” Sherlock said. “But she was delusional. You can’t trust anything she said or did.”

“She almost killed me.”

“As I said, you cannot trust anything she did.”

“I mean before that. Before she left me with Moran. I don’t know why she didn’t just kill me.”

“You are her daughter,” Sherlock said. “I imagine, however unstable her mind was, she knew that to be true.”

“Do you… do you think she was crazy the whole time?” Julia asked, words falling out of her mouth before she could catch them. “Was she ever actually my mother?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I cannot be sure.”

“But what do you think?” Julia whispered.

“I think, at a certain point, she snapped. When she murdered your father, she was most likely mentally balanced. When she sent you to live with Moran, she was probably only inching towards insanity. She knew what she was doing, she knew what it would mean for you, and she did it anyway. She soon developed a romantic obsession with Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock explained. “It came as a great shock to her when he died. I’m afraid she’d been expecting to gain some sort of newfound appreciation from him. When he died, it changed her mental stability. She was gone far before it happened, but his death pushed her over the edge. There was nothing you could have done.”

Julia swallowed. Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide.

“That wasn’t good.”

“No, I asked you what you thought. It’s really fine,” Julia replied. “I just… wanted to know if she’d ever liked me. Even just a little.”

“What she said to you wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know all that she told you when I wasn’t around, but you’re not a ‘good-for-nothing’ anything,” Sherlock explained. “You’ve made my life considerably more enjoyable.”

“How? I’ve ruined everything just by existing.”

“No, you haven’t. Don’t think like that,” Sherlock demanded. “It doesn’t end well for you if you do.” Sherlock would know.

There was a knock on the door, and Sherlock got up to answer it. John stood in the doorway, Julia’s duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He smiled grimly and walked into the flat, not saying a word. He dropped the bag next to his chair and sat down heavily.

“Thank you for bringing it back,” Julia said softly, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“It’s not a problem.”

Sherlock sat on the couch and looked between the two of them.

“Perhaps one of you should start,” he said. “I can then catch you up on what transpired here.”

Julia chewed her lip and looked at her fingers. She absently rubbed her forearm, where the fingernail marks were fading away.

“I thought I messed up again. I thought I’d ruined everything,” Julia said quietly. She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “So I left. I knew you would get in trouble if I called Lestrade because he works with the police, so I went to John and Mary’s instead. I was hoping Mary wouldn’t hurt me if John was there. And… you said I could trust John with my life, and- It seemed like the best idea.”

“She was having a panic attack when I checked on her in the guest bedroom,” John added.

“It wasn’t a panic attack,” Julia protested halfheartedly. “You weren’t listening to me and I got frustrated.”

“Oh, no, you were hyperventilating because you were completely calm,” John scoffed. “I took your pulse; your heart was racing. You were shaking like a leaf. Panic attack.”

Julia sighed. “Fine. I had a _minor_ panic attack because Mary wasn’t at the house, and you knew what she was, and you forgot your signature. You said Baker Street was ‘home,’ and I haven’t had a home in years, and I thought it was going to be taken away from me and she was going to come back and I couldn’t _live_ with her again, I couldn’t-”

“Julia,” Sherlock said, cutting her off. “Breathe.”

“Yes, all right, so I have minor panic attacks.”

“All right. So you convinced John to come here with his gun. But why in God’s name,” Sherlock asked, pinching the bridge of his nose, “did you _bring her with you_?”

John looked pointedly at Julia, who chewed her lip and looked away.

“If Mary wasn’t at the flat when John got here, that would mean she could come home at any moment, and if she saw me there, I don’t think she would’ve been happy. Purely selfish reasons.”

“She insisted on coming with.”

“You’re a soldier, John. You couldn’t handle a fifteen-year-old girl?”

“I don’t see why my gender has anything to do with it,” Julia muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I apologize. Do go on.”

“I told her to stay downstairs.” John looked at Julia again, and his gaze made her shift uncomfortably.

“She seems to have trouble following that one simple rule,” Sherlock agreed. Julia stuck her tongue out at him, and his lip quirked up in a half-smile.

“I follow the other ones pretty well.”

“You haven’t left the flat often enough to meet any boys or drug dealers.”

“There was that annoying one in the grocery store. And Lestrade’s son.”

“I’m sure Lestrade’s son isn’t a drug dealer. I can’t be sure about Tesco, though.”

Julia giggled.

“This is all very cute,” John commented. “All the jokes and laughs and comradery. But can we get back to the matter at hand?”

“John, I don’t know what there is to discuss.”

“My wife killed herself, Sherlock. I loved her.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. Perhaps you should go back to therapy if you wish to talk about it.”

“Sherlock,” Julia hissed.

Sherlock saw John and had the sense of mind to look a little sheepish. “I apologize, John. That was inconsiderate of me. You know you can tell me anything.”

John nodded sharply, relaxing his clenched fists. “What Mary said, before she died- She looked at me, and said that I wasn’t any good for you.”

Julia saw Sherlock’s whole body tense. He looked ready to turn to stone. “So she did.”

“Any idea what that means?”

“None at all, I’m afraid. I can’t help you with that bit.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m truly sorry, John.”

“I think you know something.”

Julia wished John would stop pushing. Sherlock shouldn’t have to admit anything to John just because the other man was angry at the situation. She chewed her lip.

“Stop,” she whimpered. It hadn’t come out like she wanted it to. “Just stop. You can’t trust anything she said.”


	11. Fix You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Julia spend quality time together.  
> Title is "Fix you" by Coldplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind the tags! Also, please tell me if anything is wrong or inconsistent or if you just have any questions.  
> Just a quick note about the series:  
> After the last chapter of this fic is published, there will be two more fics to complete the series. The first is a shorter one that I'll publish about two weeks after this is finished. Hopefully, two weeks after that, I'll start posting the second 8-12 chapter one I am currently working on.  
> Thanks to everyone who's reading and supporting this fic! I hope you all love it as much as I do.

Sherlock nodded. He glanced at Julia, then at John, and decided it might be best if he just kept his eyes on his hands.

“Mary and I were never… intimate. She put you through unspeakable pain. I would never even think of it. You both have to know that,” he said. “I would never- she was your wife, John. It never would’ve crossed my mind.”

“I know,” Julia whispered.

John swallowed and nodded.

“I’d never even had a full conversation with her before that,” Sherlock added. “She broke in, picked the locks most likely. She tried to convince me to partner with her, to leave for God-knows-where with her. She wanted to kill you both, but obviously I couldn’t let her do that. I said so, and she took it to mean that if you two were safe, I would agree to stay with her. It was all very twisted.”

“She kissed you, then,” Julia mumbled.

Sherlock grimaced. “Yes, she did. She was romantically obsessed with Jim Moriarty and became convinced I was somehow a better version of him. She had a gun digging into my stomach. I was not a willing participant.”

“Mary… Mary was an assassin, then,” John said. “She worked for Moriarty.”

“Yes.”

“She killed my dad,” Julia said. “And she left me with Moran. She wasn’t the Mary you knew. She changed.”

“I believe she had multiple personality disorder,” Sherlock said. “When she was with you, John, she was relatively sane. However, yesterday, she was out of her mind.”

“So, when she threatened me in the bathroom, that wasn’t my mother,” Julia mumbled. “So she could’ve cared about me. She could’ve loved me. _Really_ loved me.”

“Theoretically, yes.”

Julia smiled.

“Wait, she threatened you in the bathroom?” John asked, his brow furrowed. “When was this?”

“The first time you two visited, I nearly got sick,” Julia explained. “She came to check on me in the bathroom. She said if I told anyone about her, she’d have to kill them. And Sherlock. But she wouldn’t kill me because she would be doing me a favor.”

John cocked his head. “Doing you a favor?”

“Seriously?”

“Enlighten me,” John snapped. Sherlock glared at him.

“‘You’re suicidal half the time anyway,’” Julia replied. “That’s what she said. That was her reasoning. I would be more miserable alive with you dead than I would be at the idea of dying.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “We can all be relieved she’s no longer a threat, then.”

“Relieved,” John scoffed.

“Yes, John. I am extremely relieved she’s no longer around to threaten the life of my…?”

_Don’t say it, Sherlock._

“I thought I was your niece,” Julia answered.

_It doesn’t matter how much you want to._

“Flatmate, perhaps,” he substituted.

“Roomie,” she laughed.

_Don’t say ‘daughter.’_

“Friend?” he inquired.

“Bestie,” Julia giggled.

He chuckled. “Of course, yes. That’s the one.”

“For life!” Julia exclaimed. “We’d better work on our secret handshake.”

“Can you two concentrate?” John asked, rubbing his forehead.

“Oh, John, you know how my mind works. I’m concentrating on anything and everything,” Sherlock replied. “Now, is there anything else you wish to talk about?”

“Not at the moment, no. But I still think you’re hiding something from me,” John said. “Don’t worry; I’ll find out what it is.”

“Please, John. Don’t kid yourself.”

John grinned, and Sherlock smiled back at him.

“Right, then.” John stood. “If that’s all, I’d better be going.”

“John,” Sherlock said, “you know that you are welcome here any time.”

“Yes, quite right,” John replied, smiling. “It might- I don’t know if I can stay there. At the house, I mean. If I- If it’s okay-”

“No, it’s all right, John. Come by anytime you need.”

“Thank you.” John rubbed his hand against Sherlock’s elbow and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock turned to Julia, who was sitting with her eyebrows raised nearly above her hairline.

“I saw it,” the girl said. “I saw how he looked at you.”

“What are you babbling about now?”

“When John looks at me, his eyes are hard. He still sees Mary in me,” Julia explained. “When he looks at you, he sees you. He doesn’t see what you’ve done or where you’ve been. He just sees you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped onto the couch again, his dressing gown settling around him. “His wife just died, Julia. He’s grieving. And John isn’t gay.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be interested,” Julia protested.

“It actually does,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, right now, I’m pretty sure I like boys.” Sherlock looked at her sharply, but she continued speaking. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t fall in love with a really lovely girl sometime in the future.”

“In the distant future,” Sherlock remedied. “You’re not allowed to date until you are at least seventeen.”

“ _That_ isn’t fair.”

“Not my problem, is it?”

Julia shook her head, smiling. “What are we doing today?”

“I was thinking of painting your room. I have nothing better to do, and neither do you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Do you have any of your old clothes?”

“No, I threw them out.”

“No matter. You’ll simply have to borrow some of mine.” Sherlock reasoned. “Keep those pajama bottoms on.”

Sherlock rooted around in his dresser until he found what he was looking for - an old graying t-shirt he would be happy to let go. He walked back into the sitting room to find the girl staring at him doubtfully.

“Why do you want to paint today? Won’t John be moving back in?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sherlock replied. How he wished it were true, that John was coming back to him, but Sherlock had given up John’s favor when he died to save him. Sherlock would have to deal with it.

“You’re not moving me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’m not worth all this,” Julia muttered. “I don’t deserve the laptop or the sketchbook or even my own room.”

“Julia, hopefully you are aware by this point that everything I say should be taken in full seriousness and held above all else. So I’m telling you now: People rarely get what they deserve.”

“What do you mean?”

“Good people die young. Children are beaten or killed. Murderers live long lives. Criminals are granted fame and riches for their deeds,” Sherlock explained. “People rarely get what they deserve. So don’t tell me you don’t deserve these things. That’s just proof that you deserve more.”

Julia swallowed. “Okay.”

“Now we’ve got that settled, let’s go paint your room.”

The girl changed quickly and ran upstairs. Sherlock followed her, shaking his head as he went.

He opened a can of navy blue paint and poured it into a paint tray.

“Are you sure you want a color this dark?” he asked.

Julia shrugged. “The white will help brighten it up. Besides, there’s a window.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Painter’s tape. I have it somewhere.”

“Sher-”

“I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock was seriously regretting his refusal to keep his flat clean. After twenty minutes of searching for the damn tape, he decided he had made a valiant enough effort and made his way back upstairs. Julia sat on her bed, looking extremely pleased with herself. There was blue tape lining the molding on the floor, windows, and doorframes.

“There are brushes and tape over there. I couldn’t reach to line the ceiling. Do you have a chair or something?”

Sherlock blinked. “You mean to tell me you let me nearly destroy the flat looking for that tape when it was right here.”

“Oh, is that what you were looking for?” Julia grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Start sanding down the door so we can paint that too.”

~*~

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I could just do it. I really think I should.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t fall.”

Sherlock sighed. “As if I’d trust you to catch me. I would most likely crush you under my weight.”

Julia made a face. “You can’t weigh that much more than me. You barely eat.”

“I eat.”

“Only when I shove food under your nose.”

“Which is often.”

“Barely.”

“What is it with my flatmates trying to force food down my throat?”

“I don’t force it down your throat,” Julia protested. “You eat whatever I make very willingly. Don’t exaggerate. And don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it, either.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ripped the tape. “That should be it. Grab a brush. Outline the windows and doors.”

“Yes, sir,” Julia replied, rolling her eyes back at him.

Sherlock grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“All right, sorry.”

The two of them set to work painting, and soon a little more than half the room was done. Julia rested her paintbrush on the now-almost-empty tray and sat on her bed. Sherlock continued painting his wall, which looked significantly better than Julia’s. At least, she thought it did.

“What, do you want a break already?” Sherlock questioned, looking back at her. “If we finish the first coat, we can paint the second tomorrow. You’ll be sleeping in here again by the day after next.”

Julia groaned. “But I’m so tired. My arms hurt.”

“Are you really going to make me do all this work myself?” Sherlock complained, but Julia could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “I thought we were partners. Flatmates are supposed to work together.”

Julia rolled off the bed and began working on the wall opposite Sherlock.

“Is that what we are?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “Flatmates.”

“Hm, yes. I suppose so. Why? Is that a problem?”

“No. Just, when I met Will, I told him my name was Julia Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a while. Julia wondered if she’d crossed a line. She probably had. Sherlock barely wanted to call her his niece. Why would he want to have more ties created between them? Julia mentally kicked herself.

“Has a nice ring to it, I must admit,” Sherlock suddenly replied. Julia wondered if he had been in his Mind Palace. “Julia Holmes. Julia _Rachel_ Holmes. Would you keep your middle name?”

“Yeah, I think so. Is Rachel important?”

“No, no, just… It’s familiar.” He paused. “You’ll have to ask John. I’m sure he knows. I’ve probably deleted it.”

“Oh, sure,” Julia mumbled, even though she knew she wasn’t going to ask him anything.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Sherlock said.

“It’s weird how you do that, you know,” Julia laughed. “It’s pretty impressive, but still weird. Like you’re reading my mind.”

“I might be.”

Julia concentrated as hard as she could on a grilled cheese sandwich.

“What am I thinking of?”

“Food.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Actually, I can’t. It’s more of a general talent.”

“Is it, now?”

“Yes, obviously. Exact readings would be preposterous.”

“Totally unbelievable,” Julia agreed.

Together, the two of them finished the room’s first coat of paint. Sherlock and Julia stayed up late that night watching television, Julia wrapped in a blanket on the couch. They compromised and watched old black-and-white mysteries. The two of them turned it into a game. Sherlock would, of course, figure out who killed the sister or the fiancé or the gardener, and Julia would try to put the pieces together for herself. Julia won if she could deduce the murderer before the detective in the show could. If Julia couldn’t, Sherlock counted that as a win for himself.

The first night Julia spent in her newly painted room, she had a nightmare. She figured that was a good way to christen it as her own.

She woke up sweating, her breath coming in short gasps. The sweet sound of a violin drifted upstairs, calming her. She breathed deeply and kept her eyes closed. Twenty minutes later, Julia lost herself to sleep easily, wandering off into peaceful dreams.

They never talked about the nightmares, not the morning after or the days that followed. Few words were necessary between the two of them. Julia would settle herself in the chair or on the couch, depending on whether or not Sherlock was in the room. Most of the time, Sherlock was awakened by Julia’s nightmares, and she hated every night of sleep he lost because of her.

Sometimes, it wasn’t her fault at all that he was up. He would be sitting in his chair, drinking a cup of tea, when Julia stumbled into the room.

“Nightmares?” he would ask.

“Yeah. You, too?” she would reply.

“Yes.”

Julia would hum in acknowledgement and pull her blanket tighter around herself. Sherlock would offer tea, she would decline, and she would fall asleep easily, knowing the man who saved her, who would always save her, was only a glance away.


	12. Not Your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a nightmare, and Julia takes some tests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and be aware of them. Also, feel free to correct me if something seems wrong or inconsistent.  
> I can't believe we're at chapter twelve already! It feels like it's going by really fast...

Sherlock bolted upright, his heart beating frantically in his ears. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. He’d been having quite enough nightmares, he decided. He’d seen too much blood and death to be having these visions.

He could control his mind. He knew it. So why did he wake in a cold sweat almost every other night?

Sherlock was always too late to save them. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Julia, John. There were all better off without him. He tried and tried to get to them, to save them, but he couldn’t run fast enough. His legs were lead, and his feet stuck to the ground. He cried out as Jim Moriarty, blood still pouring from his mouth, slammed the heavy steel door in Sherlock’s face.

There was blood on his hands, so much blood, and he couldn’t get it off. He scrubbed at his fingers furiously, and when that didn’t work, he tried to peel the blood away from his skin. The flesh came away easily, but the blood was still there. It soaked into his muscles, blood mixing with blood until there was no distinguishing whose was whose.

He dug his hands into his hair and screamed, the sound tearing its way out of his throat.

He’d woken up then. Sherlock took a deep breath and attempted to calm his racing heartbeat. Obviously, it had been a dream. He realized he had been scratching his wrist and sat on his hands. Sherlock feared he had woken up Julia, but when no outside noise was heard, he relaxed and fell back on his pillows. There would be no getting back to sleep for him tonight.

Sherlock decided to make himself some tea and catch up on some medical journals he was reading. He was beginning to feel relatively peaceful when he noticed a girl’s soft mumbling and the thump of a pillow hitting the floor. He cursed the thin walls of their flat and stood to begin playing his violin.

A high-pitched scream stopped his heart cold.

Sherlock hurtled up the stairs and knocked loudly on Julia’s bedroom door. The only answer was a loud wail. He opened the door and walked in slowly. Julia was lying on her back, her hands clutching the sheets at her sides. Tears ran down the sides of her face and wetted her hair. Her chest was heaving, and she gasped great, violent sobs.

“Julia,” Sherlock snapped. “Julia, wake up.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, but she yelped and jerked back. Sherlock grabbed both her wrists and closed his hands around hers. He tried to remember what he’d read on those damn useless websites.

“It’s fine. It’s all right. I won’t let them hurt you. I’m here. I’m right here with you,” he said. “Come on, Julia. Follow my voice. Can you do that for me?”

The girl’s eyes cracked open, but she continued to sob. She took one look at Sherlock and launched herself into his arms, crying on his dressing gown. Julia’s fingers dug into his back. Sherlock awkwardly put his arms around her.

“They- were there a-and they had my hands tied- tied down and…”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, I have. Everything,” she cried.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true! My mother had me when she was a teenager. She could’ve gone to university if I hadn’t been born. She could’ve done something else. She could’ve become a doctor or an accountant or an actual florist. Sh-She should’ve given me up for adoption at least,” Julia rambled. “If I hadn’t come to Baker Street with you, Mary never would have tried to kill either of you! If I had just killed myself when I had the chance-”

“Don’t _ever_ let me hear you say that again,” Sherlock snapped. “I will not have it! You don’t get to _decide_ to die, do you understand me?”

Julia buried her face into Sherlock’s chest until her sobs died down.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she admitted weakly.

“That’s fine. Neither do I.”

“Are you going to stay here?”

“No. You should come downstairs. I’ll make you some tea, and we can watch telly.”

The girl nodded and stumbled out of bed. She watched the television for a while, but soon turned it off. She sat back on the couch and closed her eyes.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Get your sketchbook. Draw something. Use your laptop.”

Julia nodded and disappeared upstairs. She came back with her sketchbook in her hand. The pair of them were sitting peacefully when the sun rose. Julia was drawing, and he was flipping absently through medical textbooks. He threw his head back and sighed, unable to hold it in any longer.

“I’m so _bored_ ,” he complained.

“Ask Lestrade for a case.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please, I’m not _that_ desperate.”

“I’ll do it if you don’t.”

“I forbid you.”

“You forbid me?”

“Yes, I forbid you. Now, go make breakfast. I’m sure you must be hungry.”

“I’ll eat if you do.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. “Only because it’s essential to continue living.”

“Right. Not at all because you like the way I make omelets.”

“That is absolutely not the case.”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock tossed the book onto the table and flopped down on the couch. He listened to Julia move around in the kitchen, the clinking of pots and pans as she struggled to find the right ones. Sizzling and popping sounds filled the small room, and the smell of bacon lazily made its way over to Sherlock. He sniffed and frowned as his stomach growled. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. It wasn’t yesterday, or else he wouldn’t be hungry now. Sherlock sighed. He couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. Everything was boring, so, _so_ boring.

“You ate last Tuesday. It was three days ago.”

“Who’s the mind reader now?” Sherlock muttered.

“Maybe it’s contagious. Like a disease.”

“Perhaps it is. I wonder if there is a vaccine.”

“Well, it’s too late for me now,” Julia called. “We should look into it for Mrs. Hudson. She’s probably at risk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Everything was boring him. Experiments, medical textbooks, talking, _bacon_ – there wasn’t a purpose to any of it. It was all so tedious.

“Sorry.”

“What?” Had he said that out loud?

“Bacon is tedious. But you’re going to eat it anyway, or you’ll wither away like a plant without water, and you’ll never get to go on another case ever again.”

Sherlock heaved a great sigh and rose to his feet. He threw himself into a chair at the table and grunted as Julia placed a plate in front of him. It really did look appealing. It seemed Julia’s culinary skills were improving. Sherlock obediently shoveled the eggs into his mouth when his phone buzzed. He tried not to scramble for it, but knew he’d failed to look casual when he heard Julia giggle behind him.

He read the message of sighed again, only a little quieter this time.

“Mycroft is arranging a tutor for you.”

Julia choked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Are you all right?”

“What? Yeah, no, I’m good. Just… a tutor?”

“He thinks it is necessary. He’ll choose the most qualified teacher, I’m sure.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You have to receive an education sooner or later, and sooner is much more beneficial in the long-run,” Sherlock replied. “It’s not as if I’m going to teach you. I’ve deleted all the information they deem ‘important.’ Instead of knowing the answers to your history test, you’d probably spout out the periodic table.”

“I guess you’re right,” Julia mumbled.

“It’s not as if I wouldn’t be able to assist you with schoolwork.”

“You’d help me with homework?”

“If I’m not busy, I don’t see why I wouldn’t.”

Julia smiled. “Okay. That sounds good.”

Julia’s phone rang from the living room, and she groaned. She gazed longingly at her plate as she went to search for it.

“Oh, hi, Mycroft. Yeah. Okay… Um, it doesn’t matter. I’m never busy… Yeah, that would be better. Thanks… Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him. All right… Goodbye.”

Julia entered the room once again and started eating immediately.

“What did _he_ call for?”

“He wanted to know what time the tutor should come round every day. He suggested after lunch. I would get a minimal amount of homework to do after she leaves.”

“She?”

“He asked if I would be more comfortable with a woman teaching me. I said yes.”

Oh.

“It’s just… strangers, you know?” Julia said quietly.

 _Oh_.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

“The tutor is going to arrive with textbooks for me, but we need to get notebooks and a calculator and things. Mycroft said he’d send the tutor with the list.”

“Wonderful.”

“Shopping trip,” Julia sang. “I only like them because you hate them.”

“Who’s the sociopath now?” Sherlock muttered.

Julia grinned, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

~*~

Julia and Sherlock were in the sitting room when Mrs. Hudson popped her head through the doorway. Julia closed her book as Sherlock perused his emails, looking for a case.

“Sherlock, dear, there’s a lovely young woman here to see the two of you,” she announced. “Would you like me to send her up?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, his eyes not leaving his laptop screen. “Is she a client?”

“No, dear, she mentioned something about a tutor.”

“Ah. Yes, do send her in.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded and closed the door behind her. Julia jumped out of her chair stretched her arms. She checked the kitchen for the third time that morning; it was clean. She’d asked Sherlock not to do any messy experiments so the table would be clean for the day. Julia had cleaned off the table and sprayed air freshener, wanting the room to look somewhat acceptable.

Sherlock glanced up at her. “What are you excited for? School is unbearably tedious.”

“I haven’t gone to school in years!” Julia exclaimed. “This is great. But what if I’m placed in a class of twelve-year-olds?”

“We’ve talked about this, Julia,” Sherlock sighed. “The whole point of this tutor is bringing you up to the level you’re supposed to be.”

“What if it takes forever and I never get caught up?”

“It won’t. Now, you are aware that I abhor repetition. And what-ifs. Calm down, or you won’t work at your optimal level.”

“Okay. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

There was a knock on their door, and Julia breathed in calmly before opening it. It wouldn’t do any good if she scared away her tutor on the first day.

The woman who stood there was young but looked exceedingly professional. She had curly honey-brown hair and eyes that matched. She carried a bag and wore a dark suit. Upon seeing Julia, she clicked off her phone and smiled.

“Hello,” she said. “Mr. Holmes sent me. I’m your tutor.”

“Anthea,” Sherlock muttered. “I should’ve known. Why on earth did he send you?”

“I’ve four degrees, Mr. Holmes: a Master’s in economics and one in mathematics, and a Bachelor’s in history and literature each. I’m more than qualified to tutor Julia until her knowledge rivals that of an average sixteen-year-old.”

“She’s fifteen.”

“No,” Anthea replied.

“Oh. Right. My birthday was a few weeks ago,” Julia admitted. “I’m sixteen now.”

“You didn’t tell me this _why_?”

“It wasn’t important. The whole thing with Mary…”

Sherlock sighed. “We’ll have to celebrate belatedly then. Go, do your learning… _thing_. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson bake a cake.”

Julia smiled. “I like chocolate.”

“I know that.”

“Did you really?”

“…Yes.” Sherlock placed his computer on the couch and left for Mrs. Hudson’s.

Anthea gave a quick smile and seated herself at the kitchen table. She procured a stack of paper and several pencils from her bag.

“I’ve a few tests here for you to take. Don’t be alarmed. It’s merely an assessment for me to see where we need to start reviewing or learning new material. After all, we wouldn’t want to waste time learning things you already know.”

“Okay,” Julia replied, swallowing.

“Which would you like to take first: history, sciences, literature, mathematics, or grammar and writing?”

Julia knew she could probably do well on the literature and grammar/writing tests. She’d always loved books, and had read many classic stories before the time she was ten. When she was younger, she’d loved audiobooks. Julia had nearly forgotten.

It wasn’t as if Julia hadn’t read most of the science textbooks lying around the flat. She hadn’t understood all the words, but Sherlock had given her a computer for a reason, and it was blissfully easy to look up anything she wasn’t sure about.

Julia was substantially less sure about the maths and history tests. They had never been her best subjects. Julia understood the main concepts of maths, but she had trouble putting them into use. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing. History was only slightly better, but only because you mostly had to memorize dates and names for any history tests. There was a minimal amount of understanding needed.

The question was: should Julia take the easy route first, or use the most of her energy on the tests she would need to work hardest on?

It seemed fairly obvious to her.

“Maths,” Julia decided.

“All right.” Anthea handed over five sheets of paper stapled together. “This contains all the material you should’ve learned from ages eleven to fifteen. We aren’t expecting you to know all this, so don’t get flustered if you can’t answer or understand a question. I won’t be helping you, so do try your best.”

“Okay.”

“Take as long as you need. After you finish this test, pick the second and start working on it. When you’re done with that, you can take a break while I grade them.”

“O-kay.”

It took Julia nearly an hour to complete her maths test, during which Sherlock stayed downstairs. Julia suspected he was trying not to distract her. She handed the papers to Anthea, who had been typing away at her phone for the last forty-eight minutes. Anthea nodded towards the stack of papers and picked up a red pen. She started writing immediately. Julia fidgeted in her seat.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anthea commented absently. “I’m only making notes for myself.”

“All right.”

Julia grabbed her history test and started marking answers. It wasn’t easy, but, surprisingly, it wasn’t extremely difficult. She hated to remember any of her time with Moran, but it seemed as though she’d picked up a few things in the countries they’d been.

The history test was completed within thirty-two minutes. Julia was more confident on her score this time around. Anthea was making notes for herself in a separate notebook now, scribbling away furiously.

“Take a break,” the woman ordered. “Go downstairs, talk to Sherlock, walk around, get something to eat.”

Julia nodded and trudged downstairs. She knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and shuffled her feet. Sherlock opened the door and let her in.

“What is taking so unbearably long?” he complained.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson scolded, “she’s only been up there for an hour and a half. Leave the poor girl alone.”

“I’m taking evaluations,” Julia explained. “She needs to see what I know already and what she has to teach me still.”

“Are you done?”

“No. I still have science, literature, and grammar and writing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Then what have you been doing so far?”

“Maths and history. My worst subjects. So it took a while.”

Sherlock scoffed. “History.”

“I remembered some of the less specific things from before. I think I did better on the history than on the maths.”

“Well, you can always get better at that.”

“Sherlock.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I said,” he protested. “I don’t care how she does. No. Obviously, I would prefer it if Julia did well. I’m merely saying that she doesn’t have to do exceedingly well right away.”

“How reassuring,” Julia commented. “Thanks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Mrs. Hudson tutted and pulled a pan of biscuits out of the oven. She carefully put them all on a cooling rack and smiled proudly.

“Now, after you finish those other tests of yours,” Mrs. Hudson promised, “you can come back down here and have some tea and biscuits.”

“Oh, thanks, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock nicked a sweet from the rack and bit into it, not caring that it was probably burning his tongue.

“That is, if there’s any left.”

Julia scampered out of the room and back upstairs.

“Do your best!” Sherlock called after her.

She grinned and closed the door to their flat. She sat across from Anthea, who nodded towards the rest of the papers. She picked out the literature test and set to work.

Julia finished within thirty-six minutes, but she knew she did better than before. She took the sciences test and finished that in half an hour. It was all very basic, and she caught herself yawning once or twice. The writing and grammar test she completed with ease.

Anthea gathered her things and stood gracefully.

“That’s it for today,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few days with coursework. I’ll see you then. Oh, and don’t worry. You seem very promising.”

“Thanks, I guess. I’ll see you then.”

“Mr. Holmes will send a list of supplies to his brother as soon as we are sure of our needs.”

“All right. I’ll tell Sherlock.”

There were still biscuits in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, along with a cup of tea and a promise of a real birthday party sometime soon.


	13. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a case, and Julia gets a visitor.  
> Title is "Weak" by Seether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the tags. Feel free to point out anything inconsistent or ask any questions.  
> There's an actual case in this chapter! (Finally.)

“How many notebooks can you possibly need?”

“Four, and three folders, one graphing calculator, and lots of pens and pencils," Julia repeated. "Mycroft told you this.”

Sherlock frowned.n“I ignore most of what comes out of his mouth.”

“You’re lucky to have an older brother. I think I would’ve liked one.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but took the notebooks from Julia and shooed her down the aisle.

“Unless he was dating my boss.”

“Lestrade is not my boss.”

“It really seems like he is.”

“How?”

“He gives you cases to solve, and you get paid after you’ve solved them.”

“That doesn’t make him my boss,” Sherlock huffed.

“All right,” Julia replied. “Have we got everything?”

“Yes, everything my pompous brother has specified. Plus the desk in your room for your schoolwork.”

“So… can I look at the books?”

“What?”

“There are books over there,” Julia replied. “Fantasy books. Historic fiction. Mystery novels. Can I look at them?”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose. Make it quick.”

Julia grinned and bounded to the other side of the store. Sherlock followed her, walking slowly through the aisles. She ran back to him with a stack of books in her arms.

“Which ones should I put back? I can’t decide.”

“That’s quite a lot of books.”

“I know. That’s why I _asked_ you which ones I should get.”

Sherlock took the top three books and read their titles. “Fiction, fiction, fiction.”

“I- I can put those back. There are biographies I can pick up instead.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed, and he grinned manically. Julia raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him.

_(3:27pm) Boy, 17, ruled a suicide. Something doesn't add up. I think you should take a look._

_(3:28pm) How was the body found? SH_

_(3:29pm) Hung himself with a scarf in his closet._

_(3:30pm) I’ll be there within the hour. SH_

“No, get them all. We’re celebrating. I’ve got a case!” he exclaimed, taking all the books from the girl. “Will you be all right alone at the flat? Mrs. Hudson will be home if you need anything.”

“I’ll be fine. You promise to tell me about it when you get home?”

“Of course. My genius needs an audience.”

Julia just smiled.

After making sure Julia was settled in the flat, Sherlock bounded out of the house and called for a taxi. He spouted out the address Lestrade had given him, and the taxi was on its way.

It was an average house: two floors, small lawn, and brown shuttered windows. Light hardwood flooring, worn couches, a small television, and eggshell paint in all the rooms except the kitchen, which was painted a dull beige. It smelled of cigarette smoke and vanilla perfume.

The mother of the deceased was weeping, her mascara smearing around her eyes. Her graying brown hair was put up in a loose bun, and her lipstick was applied perfectly. Late forties, Sherlock guessed, judging by the crow’s feet around her eyes.

The boy’s sister was seated at the other end of the room, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her face was tucked into her lap, and only her dull blue eyes peeked out from their cover. She was thin like her mother, but unhealthily so. Her fiery hair was dull, lacking any shine or luster, and it hung limply in her face. She chewed her lips, her eyes never leaving her mother.

“Who found the body?”

“I did,” the mother choked. “My baby boy.” She broke off in order to sob again. “We were happy. We were happy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“He hung himself in his closet,” Lestrade murmured behind him. “Do you want to go take a look?”

“Was he moved?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.”

“I don’t understand why we can’t bury him,” the boy’s mother wailed. “My baby boy. I just want to bury him.”

Sherlock walked calmly upstairs, ignoring the cries of the mother. He entered what was clearly a teenage boy’s room. Lestrade stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock ignored the obvious – the body in the closet – and instead focused on what he saw under the desk.

He wondered if teenage boys normally kept first aid kits hidden in their rooms. Sherlock stooped and rooted through the boy’s garbage can. Candy bar wrappers, soda cans, crumpled-up pieces of paper, and – oh. A bloody gauze bandage and quite a few antiseptic wipes were wrapped up in a ball and buried under the rest of the rubbish.

Sherlock turned his attention to the body of the boy. A black scarf was tied around his neck, and he was hanging from the clothing rod. He was thin for a seventeen-year-old, and his close-cropped hair was the same color as his sister’s.

He closely inspected the boy’s pajama shirt, picking off a long strand of red silk.

“I need to look at the bruises on his neck. Take him down.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Can you show an ounce of respect?”

“Lestrade, this isn’t right. There isn’t anything here to suggest he was depressed. There’s no _reason_ for the boy to have killed himself.”

“Christopher.”

“What?”

“His name was Christopher, Sherlock, and he was only seventeen. He had a family. They’re downstairs, mourning his loss. Show some respect.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “This must be a difficult case for you.”

“Don’t,” Lestrade replied. “There is a boy, dead, not three feet from you. It’s obvious even to me that he didn’t kill himself. Now, all I want to know is who killed him and why so I can put them behind bars for a very long time. So don’t you dare bring my children into this. I could do the same for you.”

“I don’t-”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll get the team.”

They lowered the boy gingerly onto a tarp. Sherlock unwrapped the scarf and frowned. He traced the bruising with his gloved fingers, frowning to himself.

“This is all wrong,” he murmured. “This bruising pattern, it doesn’t correlate with that of a noose. It’s more likely… It’s much more likely he was strangled.” He took off his own scarf and wrapped it around his wrist, tightening it until he could feel the circulation cut off. “That’s it!”

“Sherlock, have you got something?”

“Search the mother’s and sister’s closets for a red silk scarf.”

“You think one of them did it?”

“Perhaps. The scarf will help us determine if that’s the case.”

“And what are you going to do?” Lestrade questioned.

“I’m going to talk to the sister.”

Sherlock texted Julia and turned out of the room. He walked calmly down the stairs and right up to the girl cowering on the couch. She looked up at him, and he saw a bruise healing on her left cheek.

“Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. What is yours?”

She glanced at her mother, who was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. The girl looked back at Sherlock and whispered, “Lucille. Call me Lucy.”

“Hello, Lucy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

“Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?”

The girl swallowed and nodded. She glanced behind Sherlock, picking at her nails.

“I think that would be okay.”

“Great. If you’d just follow me into the kitchen…”

“Why can’t she stay here?” her mother questioned suddenly.

“I find it more informational to conduct my investigations one-on-one. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Maybe I do,” she replied. “I don’t want you alone with my daughter.”

“Oh, I won’t be alone with her,” Sherlock assured. “At least two other officers will be joining us. You have nothing to worry about.”

“You can’t just interrogate her; she’s not an adult yet.”

“Are you comfortable speaking to me without your mother’s presence?” Sherlock asked.

The girl nodded.

“Good, then. I’ve gotten consent. Now, into the kitchen.”

The two of them sat at the small kitchen table. Sally Donovan followed them into the room, glaring at Sherlock.

“Don't mess this up, Freak.”

Sherlock ignored her. “You remind me of my daughter. She's always getting herself hurt,” he said, fibbing a bit. For the case, of course. “Funny thing about humans, that. We're always finding ways to harm ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. We surround ourselves by people we love, and they hurt us. They leave us. They die, like your brother.”

“Hey,” Sally hissed.

“People hurt us. And sometimes we hurt ourselves. But that's understandable. Everyone else hurts us, so why shouldn't we do it ourselves? That's my preferred alternative.”

The girl stared blankly at him, swallowing.

“Did you brother ever hurt himself?” Lucy shook her head. “Did he ever hurt you?”

“No,” she declared. “He would never think of it.”

“All right, all right. I have to ask these questions, you see. Does your mother smoke?”

Lucy nodded.

“I can smell it all around the house. I quit, myself. Well, I’m trying to, at least. It’s always hard, getting over an addiction. Relapses are inevitable.”

“Are they really?” Lucy mumbled.

“Yes, of course. My daughter hates it. She’s the one who convinced me to stop. She’s around your age. How old are you?

“Fourteen next month.”

“And your brother was seventeen. What was your relationship with him?”

“He took care of me.”

“Your mother doesn’t do that?”

“She does,” the girl protested hastily. “She does. She’s just busy. Our dad left us when we were little. I don’t even remember him.”

“It must be stressful being a single mother.” Like Sherlock didn’t know. “She probably gets frustrated.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said cautiously. “What are you saying?”

“Must be why she smokes.”

“Hey, Freak, are you actually accomplishing anything here?”

“Shut up, Donovan.”

“Why does she call you that?” Lucy whispered.

“She thinks it hurts me,” Sherlock replied conspiratorially.

“Does it?”

Sherlock was not going to answer that. “Do you think your mother would let me borrow a cigarette?”

“I don’t know. You could ask her. But I thought you quit.”

“Yes, well. Relapses are inevitable. The smell is weakening my resolve. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Sherlock approached Lucy’s mother, who looked at him and brightened. He held back a grimace but smiled instead.

“Could you lend me a cig? Haven’t had one since breakfast. I’m afraid I’m going absolutely barmy.

“I- sure.” She pulled a box out of her purse and handed one over. “Fancy a light?” she asked, winking.

Sherlock’s face remained impassable, but his mind retched. Disgusting woman.

“Ta,” he said, grinning. “I promise you I will find the person who killed your son.”

The woman blanched. “Why do you think someone killed him? Can you _tell_?”

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock replied, injecting fake sympathy into his voice. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I promise I will find who did this, no matter what it takes.”

The woman swallowed and nodded. “Thank you,” she choked. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Sherlock went back upstairs, searching for Lestrade. When he found him, the detective inspector was ordering that two red scarves be put into evidence bags.

“Lestrade. I’m filing a child abuse inquiry.”

~*~

Julia dragged her pencil across the paper, carefully constructing a straight nose. She kept her strokes light in case she needed to erase them. Her phone buzzed on the bed next to her.

_(4:37pm) Case more interesting than expected. May take longer than I thought. SH_

_(4:38pm) Noted. Thanks. What time do you think you’ll be home?_

_(4:47pm) Three hours at the most. Paperwork. SH_

_(4:49pm) Should I make dinner?_

_(5:01pm) If you are hungry. SH_

_(5:03pm) Okay. Bye. Be careful._

_(5:08pm) I’m always careful. SH_

Julia scoffed and put her phone down. She began drawing again when there was a knock on her door. She sighed heavily.

“Come in,” she called. “You said you wouldn’t be home for a while.”

“It’s just me.”

“Oh. Hi, John. I thought you were Sherlock.”

“He’s out, then?”

“Yeah. Lestrade called with a case. Sherlock said it was only a five and wasn’t worth his time, but I thought he was spending too much time in the flat,” Julia explained. “I guess it’s turned into a seven or something. He won’t be home for another three hours.”

“He’s on a case.”

“Yeah.”

“He left you alone.”

“I’m not a child,” Julia replied. “Plus, Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs if I need anything.”

“Is there food here for you?”

“I can cook for myself.”

“All right, all right.”

They were both silent for a few beats, John standing awkwardly in the doorway and Julia trying to avoid eye contact.

“You’ve painted.”

“Oh. Yes. I like it much better now.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.”

“So… did you just get off work, then?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.”

“You probably wanted to talk to Sherlock.”

John nodded.

“Sorry it’s just me.”

“Well, I’ve been wanting to talk to you as well.”

Julia stiffened. Of course John would want to talk to her. She was her mother’s daughter, after all. Wouldn’t John want to know everything about her mother? He would have questions, probably, and he’d been saving them for a while, it seemed.

“Okay.”

John stood in the doorway.

Julia sighed. “Grab the chair. You can ask me as many questions as you want. Can’t say I’ll answer them all, but you can try.”

“I don’t want to interrogate you,” John said. He dragged Julia’s desk chair next to the bed and sat down rigidly.

“You probably want to know about Mary,” Julia said coldly.

“No,” John replied. “I know what I need to about her.”

“So what do you want?”

“I don’t know all that much about you, is all,” John said. “You are living with Sherlock. I should know you a little better, don’t you think?”

“You just said you didn’t need-”

“Well, no, that’s Mary. She’s not you.” Julia’s eyes snapped to John’s. “I’m… trying to remember that.”

Julia looked down at her hands. “I like to draw,” she said. “It’s the one thing I can do.”

“Go on,” John prodded.

“My mother never liked it. My dad didn’t mind, though. He always let me do whatever I liked.”

“I’m sorry you lost him.”

Julia shrugged. “Me too. I miss him every day. Sherlock reminds me of him sometimes,” she admitted. “He thinks the same way sometimes. You know, the whole ‘what can we get away with now?’ attitude. Sometimes he does things and I wonder if my dad would’ve done it the same way. But that won’t bring him back, so- there’s no use dwelling on it.”

John nodded. “My father died when I was young, too. Of course, he had lung cancer. My mother didn’t…”

“Didn’t blow his head off, yeah,” Julia supplied. “You and Sherlock have to stop pretending like I don’t know what she was.”

“All right, you have a point.”

“I always have a point.”

“I think Sherlock’s rubbing off on you.”

Julia smiled. “Not the best influence, but certainly not the worst.”

John smirked and agreed. “What about other kids your age? Do you have any friends?”

“I text… Lestrade’s son. I know his first name. It starts with a ‘G’. Don’t tell me.”

“Dear God, he is rubbing off on you.”

“It’s Greg!” Julia exclaimed. “Greg. I text Greg Lestrade’s son. I met him at the Yard. Sherlock brought me on a case. Neither of us wanted a repeat of last time, so we both decided it would be best if I stay here.”

“What happened last time?”

“Anderson saw my scars and thought Sherlock was hurting me.”

“Idiot.”

“He wouldn’t.”

John nodded in agreement, and they both fell into comfortable silence. Julia concentrated on her drawing once again, highlighting sharp cheekbones. John checked his phone once or twice before just leaving it in his pocket. He started to watch her draw, his eyes following her pencil as she created a familiar face on paper.

“You don’t call him ‘dad.’”

“Because he’s not,” Julia replied, swallowing quickly. “And I don’t think he wants to be. We’re flatmates, even though I don’t actually pay any rent.”

“I know,” John said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Okay.”

They sat in relative silence for a while until Julia’s stomach growled. She chuckled nervously and clambered out of bed.

“Come on, then,” she said to John, who followed her downstairs and into the kitchen.

She started getting out the right pans to make grilled cheese. John stood in the doorway.

“Do you want a grilled cheese?”

“No,” he replied. “Why don’t we just order takeaway?”

“Thai?” Julia suggested excitedly. “Sherlock brought me to this great Thai place a few blocks from here one time. It was really good. I used to steal loads of food when we-”

John raised his eyebrows. “You stole food? When was this?”

“When we were in Thailand,” she said quietly. “I stole the most food there. I tried to pay for it most of the time, but sometimes I couldn’t afford it, and I never got to eat, and…”

“Well, you’ve- er, you’ve gained weight.”

It was Julia’s turn to raise her eyebrows.

“I mean, you’re at a healthy weight for your height and age as opposed to the bony mess you were when you arrived at my doorstep.”

Julia smiled. “Yeah, thanks. Much better.”

John ordered their food, and they sat in the living room. Julia turned on the television but looked at John anyway. He was obviously trying to ignore her, but he glanced over at her uneasily.

“What is it?”

“I know you like Sherlock.”

“Well, yeah, we were flatmates for years.”

Julia sighed. “What I _mean_ is, I know how you feel about him.”

“Which is?”

“Are you going to make me spell it out for you?” Julia asked. “I know that you have feelings for him that aren’t strictly platonic.”

“Where did you get _that_ idea?” John stammered. “I’m not gay.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Julia requested. “It’s insulting. Maybe you’re not gay; I don’t like labels anyway. But I don’t really care. All I know is that ever since you showed up here with Mary, you’ve been making eyes at him, and, being the _idiot_ he is, Sherlock hasn’t noticed. And I’m glad he hasn’t. I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened if he had.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were married, John. I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t want to be the other woman. Or man, in his case, but it’s still the same principle. You would come here, act like you two were together, and go home to Mary. You _have_ to know how wrong that is.”

“I wouldn’t do that to him.”

“Which is why you didn’t say anything to him when he got back,” Julia replied. “I know. Thanks for that. He’d have been miserable, and I would’ve had to deal with it.”

“What exactly is the point of this conversation?” John questioned. “I don’t have feelings for Sherlock.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “Come on, John. I see the way you look at him. Like he’s the most brilliant thing in the world.”

“Well, he is,” John said. “He is brilliant. He’s a genius. Everyone can see that.”

“Yes, but not everyone displays their adoration so blatantly. You’re lucky he thinks you’ll never want him. Otherwise, you’d have been found out a long time ago. I’m assuming you don’t want him to know because you’re afraid he doesn’t want you.”

John shook his head. “He doesn’t want anybody. He’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“Which is precisely why he wants _you_. God, you’re so slow.”

“He what?”

“So many questions,” Julia muttered. “Of course he wants you. I figured it out the day after I met him. I hadn’t even seen you yet, but he got kind of far away when he talked about you. I asked if you were his boyfriend, and he said you weren’t gay.”

“I'm not.”

“That is the main reason he thinks you’ll never have feelings for him,” Julia replied. “I know you do, however, and I just wanted to give you some advice.”

“Oh, really?” John scoffed. “What advice could you possibly have for me?”

“Don’t go after him too quickly after Mary. He’ll think he’s just a replacement for her, and that argument won’t be pretty for any of us.”

“I’m not going after him.”

“Okay. Sorry I even brought it up.”

Julia turned her attention to the television, but smiled internally when she noticed John staring into space.

She could practically hear the gears grinding in his head.


	14. Figure It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves a case, and Julia gets an answer.  
> Title is "Figure It Out" by Royal Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! So, there has been a slight change of plans. In addition to the in-between fic I wrote, I'm currently working on a short prequel. I will post a chapter every Saturday, and then the in-between fic. After those, I'll hopefully be able to start posting the second 10-12 chapter fic I've been working on as well.  
> Thanks for all the support!

“Lestrade. I’m filing a child abuse inquiry.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the circumference of this cigarette matches the scars on Lucy’s neck,” Sherlock explained. He talked without his usual enthusiasm. It seemed much harder to get the words from his mind to his mouth. “Also, you’ll find a first aid kit hidden in Christopher’s room, along with bandages and antiseptic wipes in his rubbish bin. A woman of her strength and stature couldn’t choke a healthy seventeen-year-old boy with her bare hands, but would easily be able to if she had the assistance of, say, a scarf.”

“Anything else? I need all I can get.”

“You would think, in times of grief, a child would want to be near her mother. Lucy was on the other side of the room, as far away from her as possible. Yes, perhaps they merely had a dysfunctional relationship, but what girl flinches away from her own mother?” Sherlock replied. A familiar set of dark eyes flashed across his vision. “What girl hides from her own _mother_?”

“Sherlock…”

“It’s not right,” he said quietly. “Her brother was the only one there for her. And now he’s dead. I want her out of this house as soon as possible.”

“Oh? And where are we going to put her?”

“Grandparents; is there an aunt or an uncle? I don’t care. Anywhere but here,” Sherlock said. He sighed. “If you still don’t believe me, ask Lucy where that bruise on her face came from.”

“Christ,” Lestrade muttered. “You think the mother killed him, don’t you?”

“It’s the only explanation of all the facts.”

Lestrade sighed but nodded.

“Let me get those scarves down to forensics. They’ll compare the threads and see if-”

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock snapped. “That will take too long. Lucy knows. She’ll probably receive another beating tonight to make sure she doesn’t tell us anything. She won’t be of much help.”

Frankly, Sherlock didn’t _want_ her to tell the police anything. He knew everything he needed to, and it would be an unnecessary loss for the girl if her mother had any suspicions.

“Are both scarves wool? Eighty thread count?”

“Are you telling me the fate of Christopher’s murderer rests in how bloody thick a scarf is?”

“Yes, I am,” Sherlock replied, watching stony-faced as they picked out the matching scarf. Where was his usual triumph after solving a case? Had it flown out of his Mind Palace’s window? He frowned and turned to the door.

“We’ll question the mother,” Lestrade said before he could leave.

“Good. I’ll stay with Lucy.”

Lestrade sighed. “Are you sure, Sherlock? We need someone... delicate.”

“I know. Have you forgotten my-”

“-niece?”

“-daughter?”

“Daughter, eh?”

“For the case. Obviously.”

“Of course,” Lestrade relented. "What about her?”

“Someone hurt her before she came to me. I can deal with Lucy.”

“Do you care about her?” Lestrade asked, astonished.

“Lestrade, since her father left - which is most likely her whole life - she's been abused by the woman who is supposed to keep her safe. Her only comfort, her brother, is lying dead in the other room. There's no one left to protect her. She could be next, and she _knows_ that. She knows that after we leave, she'll probably get a beating to keep her quiet. She knows all this, and she's so terrified that she won't tell us any of it,” Sherlock fired off. “You expect me to be indifferent to her suffering? Am I really that much of a machine to you?”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“Just talk to the mother.”

Sherlock walked away and into the kitchen, where he sat down across from Lucy once again.

“Lucy, what’s that bruise on your cheek?”

“I fell and hit my face on the sink.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t your mother who hit you?”

“N-no! Why- why would you think that?”

“Lucy, I can help you, but only if you tell me what’s going on. Can you do that?”

“She doesn’t want me to,” she whispered.

“Do you want to?”

“Promise you’ll help me?”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

Twenty minutes later, Lestrade was dragging Valerie Jackson out to his police car, officially arresting her for the murder of her son Christopher. Sherlock intercepted them and stared at her icily.

“What did he do to deserve it?”

“He fought back,” she snarled.

Disgusting woman.

Lucy’s formally-estranged aunt and uncle had arrived to comfort Valerie; however, upon hearing of her crime, they immediately offered to take Lucy into their home. The girl clung to them as if they would disappear if she let go. Her aunt stroked her hair gently while her uncle – Valerie’s brother – talked calmly to her. As Sherlock passed, she called out to him.

“H-hey! Mr. Holmes.”

He turned to her.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled weakly and set off to do some much-dreaded paperwork.

~*~

Julia was clearing off the kitchen table when the flat door opened. John strode into the room, his arms laden with grocery bags. She immediately took half of them from him and set them on the table. They had started packing things away when John froze, a carton of ice cream in his hands.

“There’s a pancreas in the freezer.”

“Yeah. Sherlock’s doing an experiment. I don’t know what yet, but he promised to explain it to me when he was finished.”

“Uh, okay. I’m going to move it to the other side, all right?”

“Sure. He’ll find it sooner or later.”

“Sooner or later,” John repeated, shuddering. He cleared his throat. “So, how’s your tutoring going?”

“It’s fantastic,” Julia replied. “I’ve got a history test next Thursday I need to study for. Anthea left me some worksheets to do, too. It was my worst subject. I’m fine with science, since I’ve read most of Sherlock’s and your textbooks, so I don’t even need to worry about that.”

“That’s good,” John replied. “And how are you liking Anthea?”

“She’s nice, I guess. A little too polite, like Mycroft, but I wouldn’t expect his assistant to be crude.”

“You’re right there.”

They were quiet as they put the rest of the food away. Julia offered to make tea, but John insisted he do it instead. So Julia sat on the couch as John puttered around the kitchen. He came into the sitting room, handed Julia a cup full of hot tea, and sat in his chair.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Sherlock told me to ask you about the name ‘Rachel,’” Julia admitted. “It’s my middle name, and he said it sounded familiar.”

“Oh, the pink lady,” John said, smiling to himself. “That was our first case together. Serial suicides, it was. I’d known him for a day, and then I’d gone and run after him on his bloody adventure.”

Julia smiled. “Will you tell me about it?”

“I’d bore you.”

“Sherlock told me your blog is really popular. Or, it used to be,” Julia replied. “I could just read about it, but then I couldn’t ask you questions.”

“All right,” John relented. “Let’s start from the beginning then, hmm?”

Julia listened in intense rapture as John talked. She could hardly believe his story. Sherlock had dug through the trash to find a suitcase, all because he knew it had to be pink. He’d taken John to a Angelo’s and then dragged him on a wild taxi chase through London just to prove his limp was psychosomatic. He’d taken off on his own to figure out what the cabbie had been using to murder his victims.

He had been about to take the pill. Julia was struck by how much of an idiot her caretaker was. She was glad John had been there to keep him straight, and she told him that. It just made him blush.

But then John had shot the man who threatened Sherlock’s life.

After knowing him for a day.

Julia couldn’t help but smile. John blushed again and rubbed the back of his neck. He explained the realization that the kidnapper was actually Mycroft trying to be mysterious, and Julia giggled. It seemed very like Mycroft to try to intimidate anyone close to Sherlock.

“And he just giggled,” John finished. “We were giggling at a crime scene, and I just knew-”

“Knew what?” Julia prodded. “You can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“I just… knew.”

Julia grinned. “That’s so sweet.”

“All right, enough of this. What’s on telly?”

Julia tossed him the remote and continued drawing. She looked up when he cleared his throat.

“Don’t you have a test you should be studying for?”

Julia sighed and bounded up to her room. She was rummaging around for the history packet Anthea had given her when she heard the door open. She grabbed her book and vaulted down the stairs. Sherlock ascended the stairs determinedly and entered the flat. Julia followed and threw herself down on the couch. Sherlock didn’t even remove his coat or scarf before stopping to stand in front of her. She looked up at him quizzically, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her suddenly to her feet.

Her surprised yelp was cut off as Sherlock’s arms circled her shoulders.

_He’s hugging me,_ Julia thought. _Sherlock Holmes is hugging me!_

Julia slid her hands under his coat and wrapped her arms around his middle. She breathed in his scent: cologne, disinfectant, shampoo, and… cigarettes.

“Have you been smoking?” she asked, her voice muffled by fabric. “You reek of cigarettes.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, it was the house.”

“You’re going to get the smell all over me.”

“That’s not my problem, is it?”

Julia laughed into his suit jacket as the man squeezed her tighter for a moment before letting go.

“You promised to tell me about the case.”

“Not now,” Sherlock replied. Julia imagined she’d heard his voice strain.

She shook the thought out of her head and shrugged. “All right, then. Whenever you have time. We ordered Thai; there’s some leftovers in the fridge. Eat.”

John sat dumbfounded in his chair. His tea was halfway to his lips, and the remote hung limply from his fingers.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, back to his usual nonchalant demeanor. “I’m guessing there was a reason you stopped by.”

“I… not really. I didn’t have anything else to do after work.”

“Hm. Pity you didn’t get off sooner; I would’ve taken you on the case. I’ll tell you the details later so you can type it up for the blog, if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be… good.”

“You should eat something,” Julia interjected. “You refused to eat breakfast, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll do that.”

When Sherlock had left the room, Julia frowned at John.

“I think the case got to him,” she whispered.

“I think so, too,” John replied. “We’ll let him take it easy.”

Julia nodded.

Sherlock came back into the room a few minutes later with a bowl of rice and curry. He ate slowly, often stopping altogether until Julia or John fixed him with a glare. He would roll his eyes every time and continue eating. Being Sherlock Holmes, he even managed to do it sarcastically.

Julia did some of her worksheets, often flipping through the sheets of information Anthea had her studying. John stayed at the flat talking with Sherlock for another hour or so, but it got dark quickly, so he left with the promise of stopping by the next day to type up the case.

Sherlock stood and grabbed his violin. He looked out the window and started playing. Although the melody was smooth and sweet, the song itself was sorrowful, full of longing. It wrapped around Julia like a blanket. She let the music calm her mind and matched her breathing to its steady flow.

Julia didn’t remember when she’d closed her eyes, and she didn’t notice when the last note was drawn out, crying softly into the night. She didn’t even stir when a blanket was thrown around her, or when her hair was tucked behind her ear.

Julia slept.


	15. Viva La Vida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party at 221B Baker Street.  
> Title is "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags! Feel free to correct me if anything's wrong or ask if you have any questions.

Anthea and Julia were in the flat going over Julia’s homework. They needed it quiet for a few hours, so Sherlock decided he would stay in Mrs. Hudson’s flat as to not disturb them. He was also waiting for John, who would be by soon to type up the case for his blog.

Sherlock wondered if that meant John would be accompanying him on cases from now on. Before, John had been married. He hadn’t had the flexibility of being unattached, so it was more difficult for him to find time to run around London on various mysteries. That, and he’d been a little more than furious at Sherlock’s sudden reappearance. The detective knew John would eventually forgive him if he hadn’t already, and they would eventually get back to where they were _before_ , but that didn’t make it any less difficult.

Sherlock still wanted more. He wanted all of John, every piece. He wanted to be the most important person in John’s life, and he didn’t care if that made him vain or selfish, because John was the most important person in his life – besides Julia, of course.

But John didn’t think of Sherlock that way. He did not share Sherlock’s feelings for him, but considered him as a friend. Sherlock tried not to be disappointed about this, since he’d known from the moment he met John that the army doctor would never be interested. If John just wanted his friendship, then that’s what Sherlock would give him.

Sherlock would give John whatever he asked for, and he would take whatever scraps John decided to throw to him. He knew that if he ever expressed his true feelings for John, he would drive the blond man away. So if it was friendship John wanted, it was a friendship he was going to get, no strings attached.

“Dear, are you feeling all right?” Mrs. Hudson asked, fluttering about her flat, dusting.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re thinking,” she reasoned.

Sherlock sighed. “I’m always thinking, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, I know, dear. Your brain is a marvel, isn’t it?”

“It’s loud, is what it is,” Sherlock muttered, scrolling through his email. “I wish it would quiet down for just one minute.”

“I know you do.” Mrs. Hudson sat down in an armchair across from him. “How’s Julia doing with her tutoring?”

“I assume she’s doing well. I haven’t gotten any reports yet. No complaints.”

“Sherlock, dear, you have to ask her yourself.”

“Do I really?” he asked uninterestedly.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. “What sort of cake should I bake for Julia’s birthday?”

“She likes chocolate,” Sherlock replied. “It would be best not to overdo it, though.”

“Yes, dear. I know how to make a cake.”

John arrived a short while later, and after half an hour of tea and idle chitchat, Sherlock carefully detailed yesterday’s case whilst John took notes. He left out all the sentiment, but John could tell he hadn’t gotten the whole story.

“That’s it,” Sherlock insisted. “I deduced the mother was abusive by the girl’s cheek and circumference of the cigarette.”

“The girl?”

“Lucy,” Sherlock answered automatically.

“You don’t usually remember their names.”

“I knew you would want to write up the case, so I made it a point.”

“Sure. And how did you get her to talk, again?”

“I told her about Julia. I’d said my niece had a habit of hurting herself. She seemed to be more comfortable with me after knowing that I regularly interact with at least one child her age.”

“You said niece?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I noticed that she doesn’t call you ‘dad.’”

“Why would she?” Sherlock questioned, keeping his voice deceptively calm. “She has a father. He is not me.”

“Well, he’s dead.”

“That’s no reason for me to replace him.”

“You wouldn’t replace him,” John replied. “You’d still be Sherlock Holmes. The only thing that would change is what she calls you.”

“What’s wrong with her calling me ‘Sherlock’?”

“Nothing; that’s not what I meant. Yesterday, I asked her why she didn’t call you ‘dad,’ and she said you didn’t want her to. She also said that you two were ‘flatmates.’”

“I never told her I was opposed to her calling me… _that_ ,” Sherlock said. “Also, we are flatmates, technically.”

John shook his head. “You really don’t see a problem with this?”

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock snapped. “A girl who is not my daughter does not see me as her father. Is there really a problem with it, John?”

“So that’s what it’s about, then,” John scoffed. “You’re upset that she doesn’t _see_ you as her father, even though you’ve never asked her otherwise.”

“No, John, I’m not upset about anything.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Would you like to know the truth?” Sherlock questioned. “Would you really like to know?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Enlighten me.”

“Julia has _told me_ that she doesn’t want me to be her father. I choose to respect that and not force her to call me something she obviously does not want to call me,” Sherlock explained. “I’m not her father. I’m not responsible enough to be her father, _anyone’s_ father. I am not fit to care for her. I am doing what I can, but at times I don’t know if it is what’s right. I am not worthy of the title, John. I am undeserving!”

“That’s not how parenthood works, Sherlock. Whether you like it or not, you’re-”

“No, John. I’m not her father, and I never will be.”

“You don’t get to choose!”

“I _never_ would’ve chosen this!”

John just blinked. “You would’ve left her there.”

“God, no. I couldn’t then, I definitely couldn’t now.”

“Sherlock, if you hurt that girl-”

“You think I would ever intentionally hurt her?” Sherlock demanded. “I would do anything and everything to keep her out of harm’s way.”

“Then why the hell-”

“She has nightmares. She wakes up sobbing, and she wants to hurt herself, and she wishes she was never born; and she _believes_ in me. She thinks I can fix everything, that I have all the answers. But I don’t, John. And it terrifies me constantly because the last time I felt like that, I tried to overdose.”

_And nearly succeeded._

“Sherlock…”

“How am I supposed to help her with her nightmares while I’m still dealing with my own?” the detective demanded. “She deserves so much better than me, John. She deserves a proper house, a proper school, a proper parent. I’m no good for her.”

“Sherlock!” John barked. “You’re doing an excellent job as a parent. Stop your worrying.”

“I can’t, John. I’m _not_ her father. I can’t take that credit when I’ve done nothing for her.”

John shook his head. “You care about her.”

“Am I really that much of a machine to you? Is it so surprising that I can care for people?”

John rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You genuinely care about her.”

“Yes, John, of course I do.”

“Then you’re doing a fine job.”

Sherlock sighed. “We’re having a party this weekend for her birthday,” he replied, ignoring John’s previous comment. “Saturday. Noon.”

“How old is she now, seventeen?”

“God, no. Sixteen,” Sherlock corrected. “She actually turned two weeks ago. She didn’t wish to distract us from our problems with Mary, so she decided not to tell me.”

John nodded.

“I’ll be there.”

They sipped their tea silently until John spoke again.

“What do you get a sixteen-year-old girl for her birthday?”

~*~

Mrs. Hudson was baking a cake, and the warm scent of chocolate could be smelled throughout 221B. Julia inhaled deeply and grinned. John had already arrived, and he’d put a purple-wrapped box on the coffee table before offering to make tea for them both. Sherlock had absently agreed, scanning through his emails before the party officially began.

There was a knock on the door, and Julia turned to see who came through the door. Sherlock didn’t even look up, but he knew who it was anyway.

"Hello, brother."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. Are we being pleasant today for a change?"

"I am not allowed to call you fat. Even when we cut the cake."

"I said you couldn't be rude to him," Julia cut in. "That counted. Gimme."

Sherlock dug out his wallet. He handed over a few bills and sighed.

Julia smiled and pocketed the money. "Hi, Mycroft. Thanks for coming."

"No worries. Gregory apologizes for not being able to make it, but he has other matters to which he must attend," Mycroft reported. "He sends his regards. And this." He handed over a blue envelope with Julia's name on it.

"This, however, is from me," he said, holding out a rectangular yellow box.

"Thanks." Julia placed the gifts on the coffee table and helped John distribute everyone’s tea.

John ordered from Angelo’s – they really would do _anything_ for Sherlock, Julia thought – and the four of them settled into the sitting room. John sat in his chair, Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, and Sherlock sat at the desk. Julia curled up on the couch and made herself comfortable.

“So, Mycroft, what do you do?” she inquired.

“I hold a very minor position in the government,” he replied, smiling coolly.

“He practically runs the country,” John supplied, chuckling.

The doorbell rang, and John ran downstairs to answer it. He came back up with two large bags of food. Not long after that, Mrs. Hudson appeared with a round chocolate cake covered in vanilla frosting. Julia smiled and thanked her when she saw it, and took it from the woman so she could put it in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson sat on the other side of the couch, and all five ate peacefully. Mrs. Hudson kept the conversation flowing, asking questions and making comments when appropriate. Sherlock did not say one unkind word to his brother, although he didn’t talk to Mycroft much to begin with. Julia frowned at this but said nothing, as there was nothing she could do.

After twenty minutes of pointless small talk, Sherlock suggested they cut the cake so Julia could finally open her presents afterwards. No one objected, so they all migrated into the kitchen. Sherlock lit the candle, and before the adults in front of her could do anything, Julia spoke up.

“You don’t… have to sing. I mean- don’t. Don’t sing. It’s fine.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Mrs. Hudson looked vaguely disappointed, but neither said anything. They were all silent as Julia blew out the candle – shaped like a blocky sixteen – and cut the cake herself. She gave the first piece to Mrs. Hudson, who smiled and patted her cheek, murmuring something about ‘such a lovely girl.’

Mycroft was next because he was a guest, then John. Sherlock got his piece after John with a stern look that meant to say, ‘ _You will eat this whole piece of cake or so help me God…’_

Sherlock smirked and replied, “Half.”

“Two thirds.”

“One third.”

“Three quarters.”

“One quarter.”

“You have to eat,” Julia said, exasperated.

“I ate half my pasta from Angelo’s,” he pointed out. “That’s quite a bit for me.”

The girl sighed. “Okay, fine. Eat half your cake. Starve to death; see if I care.”

Sherlock chuckled and popped a piece into his mouth.

“Mrs. Hudson bakes perfectly.”

“She really does.”

After cake, Mrs. Hudson insisted Julia open her presents. She obliged without much argument.

She ripped open the yellow paper of Mycroft’s gift, where she found a thin wooden case. She unlatched the top and opened it slowly, and she gasped.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never had ones like these before. They’re beautiful, I- Thank you so much!”

Over one hundred colored pencils were lined up neatly in the case, from scarlet to red to violet to fuchsia. They were in _color order_. It flowed perfectly from red to pink, and there wasn’t a gap in the color at all. It was continuous, a rainbow of every color known to man. In the bottom left corner, there started the neutral colors, from peach to brown to black to white. Next to that were the drawing pencils, in every shade she would ever need.

“This is… amazing! Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem, Julia. You have a talent. Shouldn’t it be encouraged?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock when he asked the question, and Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. No, more like… affirmation. Julia grinned again. Of course Sherlock would suggest something like this; he’d seen more drawings than anybody else. She was surprised Mycroft would take Sherlock’s advice, since the older brother always seemed to consider himself above him.

“My gift was the cake, dear,” Mrs. Hudson told her. “I hope it’s not too cheap of me.”

Julia laughed. “No, it was lovely! I’ll have it for breakfast tomorrow. And maybe I can get Sherlock to eat if I promise him dessert.”

“I eat enough,” Sherlock complained. “You’re always acting as if I never eat a crumb of food. What is it?”

“Well, you were too skinny before. Is this your normal weight?” Julia asked. “You still seem really thin.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock answered as John laughed.

“Then I won’t pester you about it. So much.”

“You two,” Mrs. Hudson said affectionately. “You bicker like children!”

Julia grinned at Sherlock, and he smirked back. She picked up the gift from John, the purple square box, and tore the wrapping paper off. Opening the cardboard box, she found the spines of several books staring up at her. She smiled and stared up at John.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like to read,” he admitted. “I figured my safest bet lied with the classics.”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Julia replied, running her fingers along the titles. “Are these used?”

“Uh, yeah. They used to be my mum’s. If that’s not-”

“No, used books are… _amazing_ ,” Julia interjected. “You read them, and you know someone else felt all the things you are. And your mum doesn’t mind?”

“She passed when I was in my twenties,” John said. “My mum left them to my sister and me, but Harry didn’t want them. I took them to keep them safe, but I don’t need them anymore, since I’ve read them all about thirty times.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, reading all the titles to herself and mentally making a list of what order she would read them.

_The Princess Bride; The Hobbit; Frankenstein; A Wrinkle in Time; Alice in Wonderland; The Wizard of Oz; Dracula_

“I’ve only heard of most of these. What’s _The Princess Bride_?”

“It’s everything,” John replied. “Action, adventure, humor, romance. It’s good.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John rolled his right back. Julia giggled.

She opened the blue envelope carefully. A folded-up piece of notebook paper fell out. Julia picked it up and unfolded it, blushing furiously as she read the note. Inside the paper was a thin silver necklace with a star pendant. Unlike her charm bracelet, which she wore constantly, it was obviously new.

“Oh, that’s quite pretty, dear,” Mrs. Hudson complemented. “Who’s it from?”

“Will Lestrade,” Julia mumbled.

Sherlock raised his eyes heavenward and set his jaw. Mycroft smirked at Sherlock’s expression but cocked his head as if to portray displeasure. John just looked confused.

“Who?” he questioned.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “Do you have a boyfriend already? What’s he like?”

“He’s not-”

John choked on his tea. “Boyfriend?”

“No, John,” Sherlock said. “William Lestrade is _not_ Julia’s boyfriend.”

“I would say she’s too young…” John thought out loud.

“But?”

“She’s sixteen.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m aware.” His eyes jumped to the note in Julia’s hands. “What does that say?”

“Happy Birthday – Will. P.S. Hope you like the gift. Grace had to help me pick it out,” Julia read.

“How sweet of him,” Mrs. Hudson cooed.

Julia looked at the three scowling men before her and realized just how hard dating would be if her date had to impress all of them. She wondered if there was such a person on Earth. Looking in the envelope once again, she noticed twenty pounds, which she assumed was from Lestrade. She pocketed the money and turned her attention towards the three of them.

“Would you calm down?”

Mycroft scoffed. John shifted in his chair. Sherlock sighed.

“My present for you is downstairs,” Sherlock said. “I’ll need to put it together once we drag it up to your room.”

Julia thought for a moment. “What is it?”

“A bookshelf. Looks like you’ll really need one now.”

She grinned.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” she said, hugging the older woman. Mrs. Hudson assured her it was nothing and hugged her back tightly.

Julia gave John and Mycroft hugs as well, much to their surprise. Mycroft was stunned for a moment, but quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Sherlock knew it was coming, so he reacted better than his brother had, but he was still very stiff as he squeezed Julia back.

“Thank you for everything,” she whispered, and she let go of him.

After smiling very widely for a bit, Mrs. Hudson made her excuses and left the flat, tottering on her kitten heels.

“I’ve the adoption papers if you want to take a look at them,” Mycroft announced once she shut the door downstairs.

“Adoption papers?” Julia questioned. “I thought you’d already taken care of that.”

“I did not expect you two to tolerate each other for long,” Mycroft admitted. “The same transpired with John. You have no need to be offended.”

Mycroft handed Julia the papers, and she looked over them. She frowned. There was a blank space where her name was supposed to be. Was she supposed to change it to Holmes? Would Sherlock be put out if she did? Julia bit her lip.

“So, am I keeping my name?” she asked. “ _Lloyd_.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to changing it. Julia Holmes,” Sherlock muttered. “It sounds… good.”

“It does,” she agreed.

“Julia Holmes it shall be, then,” Mycroft replied, scribbling down the name. “Now, in the event of Sherlock’s death, whose custody would you like to be put under?”

“What?”

Julia most definitely did not want to think about Sherlock dying. Ever. He wasn’t allowed to leave her. Sherlock was supposed to stay with her and… love her? She paused. Did Sherlock love her? Julia didn’t think he did. He acted almost robotically most of the time, but then, he acted that way with everyone.

He’d given her a place to live and food to eat, but that wasn’t actually love, was it? That was just being kind. Sherlock hadn’t known her well enough to love her when he offered to let her stay with him. It had started out as temporary, after all. Sherlock pitied her, so he took her in.

She fingered the charm bracelet Sherlock had given her for Christmas. Was that love? What about the laptop and the tutor and all of her books? Julia thought back to the hug, how safe she’d felt with Sherlock’s arms around her.

Julia knew she loved Sherlock. That much was obvious. She just couldn’t discern whether the emotion Sherlock felt for her was more friendly or familial.

“This has nothing to do with adopting her,” Sherlock commented, snapping Julia out of her thoughts.

“We’ll have to do it sooner or later,” John said. “It’s easier to do it all at once.”

The three men looked at Julia expectantly. She swallowed.

“John,” Julia answered, glancing at him. “If that’s okay with him.”

He just nodded.

“And if they both die?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “You and Lestrade, I guess.”

Sherlock snorted. Julia raised an eyebrow at him, and Mycroft glared.

“Whatever is so amusing, brother dear?”

“You and Lestrade. You’re a joint unit.”

“I could say the same about you and Dr. Watson.”

“No, I’m- we’re not together,” John protested, sighing.

“He has a point.”

“Julia,” Sherlock warned, fixing her with a pointed stare.

“As if your relationship status changes anything.” Julia rolled her eyes. She wouldn’t out them in front of Mycroft. He probably already knew, anyway.

John and Sherlock sighed. Sherlock waved his hand to let Mycroft talk.

“I’ll have Gregory sign the necessary paperwork when he is able.”

“Why the both of them, can I ask?” John questioned.

“Well, I mean… I know Mycroft is probably too busy to deal with a kid. Lestrade already has kids, so he knows how to deal with them. I just think it would be easier for the two of them if they did it together. This whole thing is to benefit me, right? So, the two of them would be the most logical choice.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then we’re good.”

John stood and gestured to the kitchen. “Anyone want a refill on their tea?”

Sherlock handed his cup over wordlessly, but Julia shook her head.

“I’ll get it in a bit,” she said.

“And I really must be going,” Mycroft announced. “It was pleasant seeing you, John, as always. Sherlock.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” John said.

Mycroft waited until John was in the kitchen before turning to Julia. He held out his hand, and Julia shook it tentatively.

“Welcome to the Holmes family.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock interjected, scoffing, “Julia’s been part of the Holmes family for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe it's over! Thank you all so much for the support you've given me! You guys don't know how much it means to me that you gave your time just to read my little fanfiction. Your comments have seriously made my day and cheered me up so many times I can't even count! I am so grateful to you all, and I really hoped you loved this story as much as I did.  
> P.S. - I'll post the first chapter of the prequel next Saturday (April 4th).


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